


From Here to Worlds Away

by Jizena



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence, Romance, Slow Burn, South Park: The Stick of Truth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-13 20:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 192,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14755796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jizena/pseuds/Jizena
Summary: Ten years after the great battle during which he assumed the throne, Kyle, High King of the Drow Elves, is expected to marry the Princess Kenny, but there are two problems with this: first, Princess Kenny has not been acting like herself for the past year; second, Kyle is in love with his Captain of the Guard, Stan. When Stan learns of the dark hidden intentions behind the Princess’s proposal, he embarks on a quest for truth to save his King and his kingdom. Through interwoven memories of their lives together, and with the aid of a disgraced ranger, a commanding Valkyrie, and a pair of rogues known as ‘the Creek,’ Kyle and Stan work to expose the dark magic afoot in Kenny’s plot, and hope to unite at last… if true love can indeed conquer all.





	1. I. The King and his Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in myriad ways by _The Princess Bride, Stardust, The Lord of the Rings, In Other Lands,_ and, naturally, _The Stick of Truth,_ the Black Friday trilogy of episodes, and parts of _The Fractured but Whole._ References to these are made and are sometimes obvious. Huge thanks to my beta, RosieDenn, for her feedback, encouragement, and advice (and for explaining _Game of Thrones_ to me so I could better understand the references in the Black Friday episodes).
> 
> While in TFBW we learn that _The Stick of Truth_ world is meant to be the 600s, for the purposes of this fic I have drawn mostly from Late Medieval (1100s-1400s) Europe/England specifically, with a few things thrown in from the 1500s-1600s, so as not to ground the world in any one time period and give it a bit of a fluid, fairy tale setting.
> 
> A note on the text: three dashes ( - - - ) signify a time break in the 'present,' while three asterisks ( * * * ) signify a shift from 'present' to memory and back. Also as a note on names, Craig and Tweek do not go by those names in this story, instead going with Craig's moniker 'Feldspar' from TSOT and a similarly adopted name for Tweek, which is revealed in Chapter V. Similarly, Butters is referred to as 'Leopold' throughout. Updates are currently planned at a chapter or two per week, most likely on Fridays. There are 17 chapters in total.
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> 

 

            The High Elf King had ruled since he had been nine years of age. It had been ten years, now, since his victory against the Demon King in the war that had taken a great many lives, and peace had, if not held, then at least presided over that decade. The Elf King’s lands were prosperous; his people satisfied.

            Except, naturally, for the High Elf King himself.

            It had been among his late parents’ decrees that he marry someone of noble standing by the age of twenty, when he would come of age for matters of politics, and their words hung over his head like a dark cloud. His advisors held as firmly to the former King and Queen’s decree as they did any law. Twenty had seemed so far away for so long, but the King was nineteen. His life may as well have been over.

            Kyle of the Drow Elves was tall and slender, like many of his clan, and wore robes as red as his thick, tangled hair. He was accomplished in the ways a young man of his status was expected to be—in summons and flame magic, in dancing and diplomacy—and, to his tutors’ chagrin at times, in ways he was not expected to be—in riding horses for sport, in swordplay, in being more than a little ornery in his studies and in high society. Though he was known for being fair and just, he also had a quick temper.

            His parents had perished in the war against the Demon King, leaving Kyle to rule… under the constant vigilance of the advisors, tutors, and councilors the late King and Queen had appointed. When Kyle was very young, he sometimes relished being noble, being a ruler, but as he grew up, it seemed to him more of a hassle than anything. He cherished his free time and would often get into trouble for being friends with rogues and bandits, but Kyle was not naïve. He chose his friends wisely, and had a keen sense for knowing when he was being manipulated or lied to.

            Thus, talk of marrying the human Princess Kenny was far from the top of his list of things he trusted.

            “Can I not choose my companion?” he complained aloud to his many, many councilors… and to the Princess’s appointed consorts.

            “My lord,” said one of his tutors, “we are in the company of the Princess’s court.”

            “I’m aware,” Kyle snapped at her. “Just as I am aware of my feelings for the Princess. They do not exist. Can we _leave_ this?”

            “Sire,” said a councilor who had served Kyle’s parents and grandparents, “uniting our kingdom with the Princess’s is a wise decision. Our borders will expand, and—”

            “Then we open new trade routes,” Kyle interrupted. “There is nothing that can be done by my marrying the Princess that can’t be done without.”

            But on the councilors droned, referencing Kyle’s parents’ wishes and the Princess’s many likeable qualities and accomplishments. Eventually, they had circled back to simply repeating things that Kyle had heard before, things that he had been hearing for the past year, ever since the Princess’s proposal had arrived at the elven palace door.

            Able to withstand no more of the discussion, Kyle dismissed himself to the stables, fabricating a prompt lie that he needed to take a ride through the fields to clear his head. His advisors consented, and Kyle walked the path unaccompanied.

            His palace was modest, which he approved of greatly. To untrained human eyes, it looked from a distance like nothing more than an elaborate thicket of trees and briars. To Drow Elves and others with Sight, the palace came alive, glittering in autumn tones of copper and bronze in the sun, warm and secure when the stars dotted the sky. The palace stood in the middle of a great expanse of woods, with two long, winding creeks along the eastern and western borders that were guarded by his finest rogues, who, from their duties, referred even to themselves as a singular _Creek_ at most times and had for many years.

            Spreading outward from the forest were acres upon acres of fields, spreading out into foothills and dotted with towns and villages that Kyle tried to visit as often as he could. Beyond the far southern border of his kingdom lay unclaimed land, and beyond that, the realm of the Princess Kenny, a human gifted not only with Sight but with questionable magic of her own. Kyle did not wish to marry Princess Kenny. It was not due to her being human, not at all. Kyle had many humans in his own court, and it was sometimes speculated across the realm in whispers that he, too, possessed some human blood, passed from a distant ancestor. He had the green eyes of a Drow Elf; it was the red hair, the gossipers said. No other elf had hair of that tone.

            No, Kyle enjoyed and even fancied humans. He simply did not trust the Princess. Not anymore. Not after a murky trade she had orchestrated less than five years prior with the King of Wizards, from the far West. There would be a storm, thought Kyle. He did not wish to be at the center of it.

            Around a bend and down a winding path of stone turning to moss stood the palace stables, a grand enclosure that housed the twelve best royal horses. Kyle could think in the stables. Kyle could breathe in the stables. He even removed his tangled wooden crown in the stables many times, and napped in the hay. But only when his bodyguard was there.

            And as he had hoped, there his bodyguard was.

            Sir Stanley had served the King since boyhood, and had been his Captain of the Guard for four years. When they were merely seven, Kyle had found him at the edge of the forest, near the marshes, and he became Kyle’s fast and closest companion in the two years leading up to the war that had killed the former King and Queen. Stan had been the first person Kyle had knighted, in a rushed ceremony soon after Kyle had assumed the throne, and swore fealty to him which had not wavered in ten long years.

            If Kyle was to marry a human, he wanted that human to be Stan.

            He did not voice this to Stan, of course. He told this to no one, except one or two whispers to the Creek, neither of whom ever repeated a word.

            Stan was tall, quite nearly as tall as Kyle himself, and broad-shouldered and strong. His hair was clipped short and colored a deep, shining black; his eyes were the blue of the sky at dusk, and they were constant assurance to Kyle, even when words failed. Stan was brave and steadfast, and good with a sword, as was expected of a knight, but he was also patient and compassionate, and never resorted to violence unless it was absolutely necessary.

            That day, he wore his uniform of a tanned leather tunic without sleeves, tied at the hips with a black belt and under which was his thin shirt of chain mail, leather bracers, black trousers fit for riding, and high brown leather boots, each concealing a small dagger. His sword lay to the side, and Kyle found Stan petting the muzzle of his favorite horse, humming softly to it as it ate from his hand.

            “Are you alone?” Kyle asked as he entered.

            Stan turned his head and dropped to one knee. “My lord,” he said in greeting.

            “Oh, do stand up, Stan, I came unencumbered.”

            “Unencumbered, my lord?” Stan lifted his head to reveal a knowing grin. “Then who _ever_ will tell me not to do this?”

            He took up Kyle’s bejeweled right hand in his and pulled him down to where Stan knelt. Kyle laughed but was ready, and spun onto his side before he could be thrown. Stan was on his feet and grabbed up a pitchfork from the side of a stall, and just as he brought it down, Kyle reached to the side and grabbed a rake, the wooden handle of which he used to block his knight’s own makeshift weapon.

            Stan was stronger in upper body strength and pushed, but Kyle was more lithe and slipped away from the next attack. He deftly rose to his feet, and spun out the rake before holding it forward like a staff. “On guard,” he said, allowing his tone to glide in almost a seductive manner. Almost.

            Stan was prepared to strike again, but stopped himself, smirked and covered his mouth, then erupted into laughter, using his pitchfork as a staff to keep his balance. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” he said. “It’s just… you look absolutely ridiculous.”

            “What?”

            Calming his laughter, Stan set the pitchfork to one side and stepped up to the King. “May I?” he asked.

            Kyle sighed and tossed the rake to one side. “You know you don’t need my permission, Stan,” he said.

            “Habits,” Stan said, reaching up to pull a strand of hay out of Kyle’s wild red hair. “Sorry.” He spun the hay between his fingers before letting it fall aside, then carefully brushed still more hay from off Kyle’s robe. Kyle reached up to remove his crown, and the sight caused Stan’s face to tint pink. “Sire? Sorry. Kyle.”

            “Is there more?” Kyle asked, pointing to his hair. Stan smiled, and responded by plucking out a few more strands of golden hay from the King’s red tresses.

            Over the years, when the two were younger, perhaps Stan’s smile would not have been so reserved, Kyle thought. Only recently was he starting to withdraw, accepting his place as a knight; not an advisor, not an aide, but a soldier. Higher ranks were for those born into nobility. Stan had risen as high as a young man of his class was able to rise, and nothing short of marrying into nobility could elevate his status.

            Kyle wished that he could have frozen time when he and Stan together were fifteen. The year Stan taught Kyle how to fight with a sword, how to truly gallop on a horse rather than simply amble. How to dance. Stan was Kyle’s mentor, his confidante, his best friend.

            The _habits_ of which Stan spoke were habits of only the past two years, with councilmembers and elders snapping at him for referring to the King by name in the presence of any company. Their friendship had had to move to the stables and the fields after that.

            Why must status ruin everything?

            “Clear as a brook,” Stan said, removing the last bit of hay from Kyle’s hair.

            “Thank you,” Kyle said, returning his crown to his head. “I’m sure my hair looks a mess.”

            “Not yours, sire, no,” said Stan. “It’s beautiful.”

            Kyle’s heart sank. “Kyle,” he emphasized.

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Again with the titles, Stan, please stop it,” Kyle begged. “I’m your friend. I only want to be your friend.”

            Stan sighed. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry, Kyle. It’s… I’ve been reprimanded before.”

            “Not by me,” Kyle insisted.

            “Not by you, no,” Stan confirmed. “Never by you.”

            He smiled sadly, then moved to gather up the rake and the pitchfork and return them to their proper place, then picked up a brush and moved to the next stall down to begin grooming the horse inside it.

            “Who’s reprimanding you?” Kyle asked, following. “Have they used _force,_ Stan? You’re the highest ranking knight of my court! You can’t be treated like that!”

            “Not physical force, no,” Stan said, working the brush down the horse’s neck. “There are words, there are threats. There is nothing I can do. You’ll be marrying the Princess soon, and I must remember my place if I am to keep it. That’s all.” He turned to look at Kyle and added, sadly, “I’m sorry.”

            Kyle folded his arms. His face felt hot with rage, and he began to piece together every possible course of action. “It’s her, isn’t it?” Kyle asked. “It’s the Princess and her men. That no-good Chaos Paladin of hers. Isn’t it?”

            “Kyle…”

            “I will not stand for this!” Kyle insisted, stomping one foot. “I will not make peace and I _most certainly_ will not _marry_ someone so cunning and deceitful.”

            Stan laughed a little.

            “What?” Kyle wondered.

            “Your temper,” Stan said. “Always the same.” He laughed again, and turned to look at Kyle as he said, “It’s a good thing you’re King. You’d be a foolhardy knight.”

            Kyle let out a laborious sigh and leaned against the wall of the stable, watching Stan’s every motion. “I wish I could be a knight,” Kyle said wistfully. “Then we could be together.”

            “We’ll still be together,” Stan said, moving his brush to the horse’s back. “All I need to do is be… be wary of how and when I speak, and we can always be together, Kyle. I swore to protect you, and to care for you. I would lay down my honor and my life for you.”

            “That’s not the same,” Kyle insisted. “I want… I wish…”

            “Yes?”

            “Nothing. Can we take a ride, Stan?” Kyle asked, deflecting.

            “Where to?”

            “It doesn’t matter. Take me somewhere beautiful.”

            Stan turned once again, and showed a bright and winsome smile. “I’d be delighted to,” he said.

            They saddled up two of the finest horses in the stable and rode out, following the banks of the eastern creek, dodging low-hanging branches and ancient monuments cast in mossy stone. For nearly half an hour at their horses’ top speed, Kyle followed his knight with joy, envisioning every last decree and law burning to dust in his wake as he rode toward a future where he could, at last, be free. Free to be and do and love whatever and whomever he wished.

            Stan slowed his steed’s pace and finally came to a halt when the two had crested a small hill overlooking a shining valley and one of the small human settlements that lay just beyond the forest. Stan dismounted first and set his horse to graze, then offered his right hand to his King. Kyle gratefully took Stan’s offered hand and slid to the ground, letting Stan catch his shoulders as he had done many times throughout the years.

            “Thank you,” Kyle said, his tone soft.

            “Of course,” said Stan in return. He then turned and gestured to the sprawling wilderness around them. “Will this do?”

            “Oh, yes,” Kyle said, embracing the warmth of the sun overhead. He cast a glance over the hills and fields, then lighted his gaze back on Stan as he added, “Beautiful indeed.”

            Stan flashed a smile, then walked a few paces, removed his helmet, and sat in a soft, sunlit patch of grass. “So, then,” he asked, looking up at Kyle, “what’s the occasion?”

            “Hmm?”

            “Which horrors are we evading today?” Stan clarified.

            Kyle laughed. Stan knew of Kyle’s history of avoiding either difficult or needlessly boring conversations with his tutors and advisors. Kyle was a good and fair King, to be sure, but he was restless. He had explored much of his own kingdom with Stan at his side, as the two provided much needed distractions for one another, finding the beauty in the forests and fields, sinking in the silence of momentary freedom away from the palace. Stan, too, had needed his fair share of small adventures from time to time, and while he got on with the Creek, he would ever and always prefer to spend his free time with Kyle.

            “Oh,” Kyle said, “just the usual horrendous talks of betrothal and borders and what-all.”

            Kyle removed his long outer robe, revealing his preferred attire of a stark white tunic with long sleeves that swam about the arms and tied at the wrists, a red silk doublet embroidered with gold, and simple black trousers. He lay his robe across his horse’s back, and joined Stan on the grass, closing his eyes and savoring the rush of the wind against his face and through his hair.

            “You truly do live to give your councilors headaches,” Stan observed, “don’t you?”

            “You would, too, if you had to listen to them,” Kyle said, looking at Stan through half-lidded eyes. “I want to believe that my parents wrote in that clause about marrying me off to assure that I’d be happy, but this is utter misery. Every bit of it.”

            He tucked up his knees and folded his hands over them, then began fiddling with the emerald ring he wore on his right hand. That ring was an heirloom, recovered from his mother’s body on the battlefield, and something he would be expected to present to his intended when the time came for the wedding. Kyle shuddered at the thought of the whole thing. Weddings seemed like such an unnecessary hassle to begin with. The planning, the festivities. The fact that he did not love Princess Kenny.

            “You’ll be all right,” Stan assured him, in his usual kind way. “Besides, when you do turn twenty, you’ll be able to write laws and… and make life better. And give yourself a break.”

            “But by then I’ll be trapped into this pointless marriage,” Kyle said, resting his head in his arms. “Is there nothing I can do to stop it?”

            “Why are you so intent on that?” Stan wondered.

            “I just don’t see why it’s being pushed on me,” Kyle fumed. “Do I really get no choice in the matter? Don’t I _outrank_ her? Why does her court hold sway over mine when coming to these negotiations? Is it simply a landmass issue? I don’t get it. And it’s not as though we’re merging kingdoms for the sake of legacy.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Princess Kenny can’t bear children.”

            “That’s common knowledge,” said Stan. “So?”

            _“So,”_ Kyle said, “due to her blood relations, Princess Kenny’s _sister,_ who has no connection to the forest, will be heir to everything, instead of my ward. That hardly seems fair. That’s not why my parents took him in, not at all. Besides, if I’m not marrying for issue, then I should be able to marry for love.”

            “You’re marrying for diplomacy,” said Stan.

            Kyle blew air out through his lips to create a sound of supreme dissatisfaction.

            “You could learn to love the Princess,” Stan offered.

            “I don’t want to,” Kyle insisted. “She can’t be trusted, and neither can her council. They want my land and my people, and they won’t tell me _why,_ and I will not hand it over for the sake of something that looks good on parchment.”

            “What’s wrong with the Princess?” Stan wanted to know.

            “What _isn’t_ wrong with her, lately?” Kyle said. He glared at the horizon, barely able to see the peaks of his palace. “She is not the person I knew. When we were young, we were friends. You remember. She was noble, if easily swayed. Now she’s… she’s cold. Something doesn’t feel right, Stan. I can’t put my finger on exactly what, but the Princess Kenny that I knew growing up was at the very least charitable. Now she only takes. It’s as if someone else has taken her place, this past year or so.” Kyle scowled. “That wretched Wizard King to the west has poisoned her again, somehow. I just know it.”

            “Kyle, the wizard was banished many years ago,” Stan reminded him.

            “Banishment does not stop a terrible man from being wicked,” Kyle said.

            Stan sighed. “Well, suppose the Princess has been somehow corrupted,” he said. “How will you reveal her? She’s incredibly powerful, and many idolize her.”

            “I don’t know,” Kyle said, lying back in the grass. “I don’t have much time. But I swear to you, Stan, something is not right. I have to believe that the Princess Kenny I knew would take no for an answer. She was honorable like that.” He smirked. “Besides, I thought for sure she took to her bedchambers with her paladin.”

            “Kyle!”

            “It’s _true.”_

Stan laughed, and lay back barely an arm’s length away from Kyle. Kyle turned his head to look at Stan, and saw that he was grinning still, smiling even with his closed eyes. The sun fell over his lightly tanned face, bringing out the warm golden undertones of Stan’s skin.

            Unable to resist, Kyle lay his left hand over Stan’s right, and the two laced their fingers together and watched the clouds. They had held hands without consequence for years in their childhood; it kept them both from feeling as bitterly alone as they did without the other. But lately, palace elders and Kyle’s strict council scoffed and scolded, forcing Stan to speak to Kyle as his ruler and not his friend, forcing their hands apart, forcing space between them. Where once they had seemingly all the world to themselves, nowadays, their friendship was maintained in secret.

            But nothing could stand in the way of Kyle’s fondness for his best friend. Nothing in all the realms could stop him from being in love with Stan.

            “If you could marry for love,” asked Stan, turning to face Kyle in the grass, “who would it be?”

            “Well,” said Kyle, “if I could marry for love, I should like to marry a man. He would have to be strong, and daring, and intelligent and kind. He would have to care for me very much, since I have heard that I can be quite a handful to a person.” Stan laughed. “And he would have to mean very much to me, since I don’t give out my heart to just anyone.”

            “I would carry it,” Stan told him. “I would carry your heart and your hands and your words to the end of my days.”

            Heat rose in Kyle’s face. He had not planned for this. “Well, I… I have to admit I’m rather delighted that you’ve said that,” he told his knight.

            “Of course,” Stan said, smiling. “I owe you my life. And I would carry the heart of the man you loved, should that be your future.”

            A sting hit Kyle’s chest. He could speak his truth now, but doing so might risk their friendship. However, he was nearly twenty. If he did not speak now, he could lose his dearest friend forever. Taking a breath to center himself, Kyle made his choice.

            “I’m talking about you, Stan,” Kyle said. Stan’s dusk blue eyes widened. “You know that in matters of the heart I prefer men. And I would prefer that the man I give my heart to would be you.” Kyle took a deep breath, and confessed, “I love you.”

            Stan gasped and sat up with a start. Kyle, blushing and horrified that he had said something wrong, followed. He expected Stan to say something, and feared he might protest, but Stan only looked Kyle in the eyes for several long seconds. Their hands were still clasped together.

            Faintly, Stan began to show a smile.

            And then the day was ruined by Kyle’s ward riding up the hill to fetch him back to the palace.

            “Oh, no, no, _no,_ what now?” Kyle complained.

            Kyle’s ward, Ike, rode forward on a white pony. Ike’s expression was not one of anger—he was never truly angry with Kyle—but of exhaustion. “I’ve been riding everywhere looking for you,” Ike said, and his wind-streaked black hair proved it. “The council is getting worried.”

            “Oh, let them worry,” Kyle said. Stan hurriedly pulled his hand away from Kyle’s, and Kyle narrowed his eyes at his ward. “Why did they send you?”

            “Would you rather it had been one of them?” Ike asked, looking guilty.

            Kyle heaved a sigh and held his head in his hands for a moment. “No. And I’m not mad at you, Ike,” he said. “I just wish they would trust me.”

            “Perhaps if you didn’t run away so much…”

            “Shush. No. Fine. I’m coming,” Kyle said dismissively.

            Kyle glanced over at where Stan had been sitting, but Stan was already standing again, and had his helmet tucked under his left arm. Kyle looked up at him longingly, admiring Stan’s silhouette in the afternoon sun, then gave up, knowing that they could not continue their conversation with Ike around. Ike was much more compliant when it came to listening to the council, but Ike was young, and still impressionable in the ways of diplomacy and magic.

            Stan once again offered Kyle his right hand, and dutifully drew Kyle up to standing. The two exchanged a fond look, and then Kyle gave his knight one more soft smile before donning his robe and re-mounting his horse. Stan, as always, followed, and the three began the much less invigorating ride back to the palace, keeping this time to the proper roads.

Ike, the fourth son of the royal family in the smaller elven kingdom to the far north, had lived in Kyle’s kingdom since infancy and was now a diminutive thirteen. Kyle’s parents had taken Ike in after it was discovered that the Queen could no longer conceive, and he had become their ward, and now was Kyle’s, making Ike the heir apparent to the forest kingdom.

            The land of Zaron was divided into four kingdoms, which in turn were separated by unincorporated Midlands, where weather was less consistent. Ike had come from the smallest of the four kingdoms, a mountainous region where the elven inhabitants lived in nearly constant winter. To the far south, and further east, lay the largest kingdom—the domain of Princess Kenny, who ruled the grassy lowlands that remained most often in the spring, and was bordered at its southernmost tip by an expansive sea. The Princess’s parents, the King and Queen of the southern domain, were currently away overseas and would be for some time, leaving the Princess to see over the land in their stead.

To the west lay the second smallest kingdom, the barren land of scorching summer, inhabited by humans with a tendency toward the dark arts and ruled by factions of warlocks. If the Midlands did not exist as a barrier, it was quite likely that Kenny and Kyle might have found themselves more often at war with the western sovereigns.

            The Midlands had no King or Queen, but were patrolled by the peacekeeping warrior women known as the Valkyrie, whose stronghold lay in the Midland territory between the two elven kingdoms. The majority of Midland inhabitants were human, beholden to understood rules and laws between them, but owing no allegiance or trade regulations to any of the four kingdoms. The only understood shared spaces between the Midlands and the kingdoms they bordered were the bridges and paths that allowed passage from one to the other, and even then, such bridges were often manned by rogues and rangers looking to make easy money off of high tolls… or the pockets of unsuspecting nobles.

            And in the center was Larnion, the Drow Elves’ autumn land of forests and lakes, of both hills and valleys. It bordered all three of the other kingdoms, Midlands notwithstanding, and as such the magic-filled forest served as a powerful barrier against the dark arts. Nothing affected by dark magic could enter Kyle’s kingdom without invitation, such was the power of the threads of the forest, and because of this, no western dark magic could infiltrate the kingdoms to the north or south, either. Kyle ruled the second largest kingdom in Zaron, and despite his advisors’ protestations he would often ride to each region, to speak personally to his subjects and assess their quality of life. While most in the kingdom were elves or of elf lineage, a small percentage were human, mostly Midlanders who sought the structure of a sovereign nation.

            Stan had come from the southern Midlands himself originally, but remembered precious little of his childhood there. As far as Stan was concerned, his life had begun when he was seven years old, when he had met Kyle, and joined the royal court as a page. He had risen in a relatively short amount of time to the highest ranked position any human had ever held in the forest kingdom, and Stan was more grateful for the circumstances of his life with every passing day. For all his efforts and accolades, however, the fact remained that Stan was not a nobleman, nor could he be short of a lucky marriage. And while it was not uncommon for a knight to marry a noble lord or lady, it had never been heard of for a knight to marry a King or Queen, a Prince or a Princess.

            And as they rode back to the palace, Stan trailed slightly behind Kyle, watching as his hair seemed to catch fire in the sun, observing the curve of his back, admiring the delicate points of his ears.

            Kyle had professed his love to Stan, and Stan would always and forever cherish that moment. And, he thought, always and forever wonder what he would have said had Ike not ridden up the hill at that very moment.

            Stan could feel the cold curtain of status hanging between them, and knew that there was little he could do to raise it. He could not appeal to the council. It would have been unseemly to purchase land and declare himself the lord of it. He had little to offer but love of his own, and that, in the eyes and the ledger books of the court, would never be enough.

            So Stan rode behind Kyle in silence, his heart full of Kyle’s words but his mind racing with thoughts of the future that seemed so clearly laid out. Stan had to try, he told himself, to accept the council’s decisions. He had to follow tradition and perform his duties with honor, to greet Princess Kenny as his future Queen when she was set to arrive. To accept that she was Kyle’s betrothed, that such a union was expected of royalty. That Kyle had to marry for diplomacy and not for love. That Stan would never achieve a rank higher than the one he already possessed, and that his days of meeting Kyle in the stables might become fewer and farther between. He had to hold onto every thread of friendship they had—which, Stan knew, could weave myriad tapestries. For if Stan let his love become known, it was quite possible that his title could be stripped of him by those in higher power… or worse, that he could be driven away, back to the Midlands that he no longer remembered, back to the place where the family that sent him away and never came searching for him possibly still lived.

            Stan shivered, and brought up his horse to walk directly beside Kyle’s. Kyle turned and showed a smile for Stan, but Stan could see that it was sad. That there was too much longing in Kyle’s expression.

            Stan had read Kyle a bedtime story once when they were children, that talked of lands far, far away where dreams could be made real. And in that moment, though he knew it had been nothing more than a fairy tale, Stan longed to take Kyle’s hand, and turn, and ride back to the hills and beyond, to worlds away, where they could be free.

            But Stan simply smiled back, and promised, “I’m here. It will be all right.”

            “Oh, I hope you’re right, Stan,” Kyle said, as the palace came into view. “I hope that for both of us, things will be all right…”

* * *

            Kyle had been too young to ride alone when he was just barely seven years of age, and was seated in front of his magic tutor on the day he’d heard Stan crying in the marshes. Kyle demanded that his tutor stop, and he jumped from the horse—to his tutor’s protests—and ran to the sound of crying. Stan was huddled behind a large rock, his clothes and hair wet and dirty, one of his shoes missing, but Kyle did not see a pathetic creature who needed mercy; he only saw a boy his own age that he might be able to play with.

            “What’s wrong?” Kyle asked.

            Stan looked up and gasped, his eyes full of fear and wonder. He did not answer, for he did not understand.

            Kyle studied Stan for a moment, and as soon as he saw the rounded tips of Stan’s ears, Kyle smiled and tried again. It was clear that Stan could not yet understand the language of elves. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, in the humans’ language this time.

            Stan shrank back, then asked, “Who are you?”

            “I asked my question first. What’s wrong?”

            “I’m scared.”

            “Oh,” said Kyle. “Okay. I’m sorry.” He lifted up his robes and stepped closer to Stan. He surveyed his surroundings and then, giggling, dropped his robes and let the hems get muddy. He held out a hand, and Stan shirked back. “I’m Kyle,” he introduced.

            Hesitantly, Stan reached out and took his hand, and let Kyle pull him up to standing. “I’m Stanley,” Stan answered.

            “Do you have parents, Stanley?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know where they are. They’re gone.”

            Kyle’s ears drooped, and he hugged Stan tightly. “You will come home with me,” he said. “We’re friends now. You can live with me.”

            Stan had not objected, and he professed often to Kyle that going with him that day was the best choice he had ever made.

            Kyle’s tutor brought the two back to the palace, protesting to Kyle along the way in Elven that bringing a foundling home was a terrible idea, and Kyle responded in Human that he did not care because Stan was his friend now. Stan slowly looked less and less afraid, every time it was brought up that he had a friend. He had never had one before. Neither had Kyle.

            When they arrived at the palace, the attendant to Kyle’s mother hurried the two out of the main hall and straight into one of the bath houses, where Kyle and Stan were sat in facing copper tubs that were promptly filled with hot water and petals from the garden to take away the smell of the murky waters at the edge of the forest.

            “Where did you come from?” Kyle asked, hugging his knees to his chest as he looked across the edge of his tub at Stan.

            “I don’t know,” Stan answered. “South. We don’t have big trees like you have.”

            “Are you from the Midlands?”

            “I think so. My mother told me I was going away.”

            “Away to where?”

            Stan’s eyes filled with tears, and he said, “I don’t know. I fell out of the carriage and nobody came back for me.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Kyle. “Do you want to go home to your mother?”

            Stan shook his head.

            “Do you want to stay here with me?”

            Stan thought for a moment, and then nodded.

            “Why?” Kyle asked.

            “Because you said that you were my friend,” Stan answered.

            Kyle brightened, and Stan thought that it looked like there really was a glow around Kyle, even just for an instant. “Are you an elf?” Stan wondered.

            “Yes,” said Kyle. “You didn’t know you were in the Elven Kingdom?”

            Stan shook his head, looking at Kyle with awe. “I just knew I was going north.” Stan paused, glanced around the room, and then asked warily, “Do you live here?”

            “In the palace? Of course,” said Kyle. “My father is the King, my mother is the Queen, and I am the Prince.”

            Stan gasped. He looked at Kyle, and then away. Tears pooled in Stan’s eyes, but he brushed them away, making his entire face wet with bath water.

            “What’s the matter?” Kyle asked.

            “Why are you being so nice to me, your highness?” Stan dared to ask.

            “Oh, please call me Kyle,” Kyle asked. “I’ve always wanted a friend. That’s all.”

            “Haven’t you got any?” Stan wondered. Kyle shook his head. “But you’re the Prince.”

            “Yes.” Kyle sighed. “It’s terribly lonely.”

            “Oh,” said Stan. “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s all right,” Kyle said, brightening. “I believe that the threads of fate brought us together, Stanley. I think that we were meant to be friends.”

            Stan regarded Kyle for a moment. His want for companionship and conversation far outweighed his initial unease of associating with royalty, and so Stan smiled. “I think so, too,” he said.

            “Oh, it’s wonderful!” Kyle exclaimed. He laughed and dipped his head back in the tub, then sat back up, shaking the water from his thick, curly hair. “I’m so glad!”

            Stan laughed. “Is it all right that I’m here?” he asked. “I can’t speak your language. Not yet.”

            “Well… I’ll make sure you learn how to speak Elven, and you can learn all kinds of things if you want to stay here,” Kyle said. “You can… you can learn from the councilors, or… or the cooks, or the gardeners, or the knights…”

            Stan lifted his head, and splashed to the very edge of the tub he was in to lean forward in excitement. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “The knights! I wish to learn from them!”

            “Then it’s decided!” Kyle said, grinning broadly. “You’ll stay here. You can be a page. There’s a new group beginning classes, so I’m sure you’ll catch up.”

            “Really?” Stan asked, eyes and tone alike full of wonder.

            “Of course!” Kyle said, appearing to glow again. “You are my friend, Stanley, and I want you to be happy. I think you will make a fine page.”

            “Even if I can’t speak Elven yet?” Stan asked.

            “I’ll make sure of it,” Kyle promised. “I could even teach you some words tonight, if you wish it.”

            “Yes, please,” Stan asked, grateful and awestruck.

            Palace attendants helped the boys wash, and others still entered with clothing for the both of them. Stan was given a clean dressing gown and a warm blue robe that he nestled into as soon as it was put on. One attendant led the two from the bath house and into a calmly glowing hall, where they were greeted by Kyle’s mother, the Queen. The attendant bowed, but of course Kyle did not. Stan looked from Kyle to the attendant to the Queen, then gathered his new robe around him and bowed his head.

            “Mother,” Kyle said in the language of his kingdom, “this is Stanley. He’s my new friend.”

            “Is that so?” said the Queen. Kyle saw Stan tense, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stanley, was it?”

            Stan glanced up a little at the mention of his name, but could not answer.

            The Queen regarded the boy, and her eyes softened and she smiled when she saw his ears. “Welcome to our kingdom, Stanley,” she said in the humans’ tongue.

            “He’s my friend,” Kyle insisted again, speaking Human this time.

            “Yes,” said the Queen, kindly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

            “He wants to be a knight, Mother. Can he?”

            “A knight?” The Queen bent over her knees to speak to Stan, and Stan shivered a little under his warm robe. “Stanley,” the Queen said gently, “the life of a knight is an honorable but rigorous one. Is this the path you choose?”

            “Y-yes, your majesty,” Stan said.

            “Why?”

            “Your… your son and your kingdom saved me, your majesty,” said Stan. “I’ll protect him and you and everything. That’s what I want to do. I was sent away from my home in the Midlands, and I don’t want to go back. Please don’t make me go back. I want something to fight for.”

            “You’re so young,” said the Queen.

            “I want something to fight for,” Stan repeated, with all the resolve a seven-year-old could muster.

            The Queen gave a knowing smile, and straightened her back. She patted Stan’s head and said, “And so you shall. But tonight, you will rest. Tomorrow, you may join our court as a page, if that is what you decide.”

            “I do, your majesty,” Stan said. “Thank you.”

            The Queen turned and left with her attendants down the hall. Before they could follow, Stan hugged Kyle and said again to him in a whisper, “Thank you.”

            Kyle hugged Stan in return, and then the two of them were again whisked away down the hall. Kyle insisted to the floor guard that Stan stay with him for the night, and after words exchanged in both languages, the guard relented.

            A small but fine cot was brought in and placed beside Kyle’s bed for Stan, and the two lay in the calming darkness, awake for many hours, facing one another, as they talked and began to know each other. Kyle taught Stan a few useful Elven phrases like _thank you_ and _good morning,_ and they discussed their favorite stories.

            By the morning, it was clear that they would be inseparable for the rest of their lives.

* * *

            The Princess and her party arrived in the late morning.

            Kyle had requested that Stan stay by his side and at very least within earshot for the day, which Stan of course did not refuse. The King and his knight stood at the front doors of the elven palace as the Princess, flanked by two guards, ascended the polished wooden steps. Behind her, much to the immediate concern of both Stan and Kyle, walked the Princess’s champion: a silent but calculating paladin, named Leopold.

            Princess Kenny was beautiful, there could be no question of that. Her golden hair was styled into two long braids that cascaded over her shoulders, and the spring pink dress that she wore was woven of a fine silk. As was her own custom, she wore an opaque scarf over the lower half of her face, hiding a blemish—a burn—of which she had been conscientious since childhood, which gave added attention to her bright, ice blue eyes.

            She bowed deeply to Kyle when she arrived at the door, and offered him her right hand as she stood. Stan stared straight forward, trying to observe the rest of the party, and trying, very desperately, not to react when Kyle honorably held and kissed the back of the Princess’s hand in greeting.

            “Princess Kenny,” Kyle said. “I welcome you and your council to my kingdom.”

            “My King,” said the Princess in return. “I thank you for your invitation, and for your acceptance of my proposal.”

            “We are met to have discussions, Princess,” Kyle said. “Let’s begin there.”

            “Yes,” said the Princess. “Of course.” Her eyes shifted to look over at Stan, and she said to Kyle, “Perhaps your knight would escort us inside.”

            Stan turned to face her, trying to keep Leopold on the edge of his vision. Leopold regarded Stan, but said nothing; hardly even changed his expression before turning his own gaze to the palace. Stan exchanged a brief glance with Kyle, making sure he was all right, and then Stan nodded. “As you wish, my lady,” he said to the Princess.

            Stan looked back once more at the paladin and the rest of the Princess’s party. Discussions indeed, if her entire council had traveled with her. He then returned to his duty, and signaled to his guards to open the doors, allowing him to lead Kyle and the Princess inside, turning right in the main hall toward the council chambers.

            “I hope that you will find your quarters satisfactory, my lady,” Stan managed to say as he walked.

            “I am sure they are,” said the Princess. Stan could feel her staring at his back.

           Something was not right.

– – –


	2. II. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which doubt grows around the Princess, and Kyle comes to a possible conclusion of her falsehood.

            With six months to go until Kyle’s twentieth birthday, his council was naturally in a panic. They pretended not to be around Kyle, which Kyle hated almost as much as the negotiations he had been sitting through for several weeks and months already.

            After his parents’ death, there had been no changes to the council that had already been in place, and for the most part, its twenty-five members were respectful and respectable. Kyle knew that some were only behaving so because they knew that the day he would have complete power was drawing closer, and he kept his eyes on those he felt that he could trust over others. When Kyle turned twenty, he would have the ability to write laws, appoint and dismiss councilors, and draft his own treaties with neighboring lands, rather than simply be part of the conversation and the official signature.

            All twenty-five members of the council had in some way seen to Kyle’s upbringing and education, particularly for the past ten years, and while he generally appreciated what they had taught him, he had the sense at all times that there were things they were holding back, as though they would not respect him as an adult, let alone a sovereign, until he turned twenty.

            And all of them seemed to adore Princess Kenny, which made Kyle all the more uneasy.

            Kyle did not hate Princess Kenny; he never had. Kenny had been an acquaintance since the days before she was known as _Princess,_ long, long ago in their childhood, and she had been a friend to Kyle as they were growing up (if a bit of a nuisance for always winning archery contests). Kyle simply knew that something was wrong. That something _had_ been wrong for at least a year.

            What Kyle primarily disliked about the Princess was her willingness to orchestrate trades and make arrangements with the warlocks. There was minimal unincorporated Midland territory between Larnion’s southern border, Kenny’s lands, and a long road to the warlocks’ kingdom that fell under western rule. Kenny had written to Kyle in the past, most recently five years prior, to allow passage from her kingdom to that road for the sake of trades. Even though the trade five years prior had been simply a cattle purchase on the warlocks’ part, Kyle and Stan had personally seen to the exchange, to defend the elves’ magical border at all costs.

            What set Kyle off further, now, was Kenny’s missing piece. Her younger sister, Princess Karen, was nowhere to be found in Kenny’s first few days at the palace. While Kyle cared for his ward like family, they were not as seemingly inseparable as the sisters from the southern kingdom.

            It had been agreed, after much heel dragging on the King’s part, that Princess Kenny would stay at the palace in Larnion for the span of three months. It was the idea of both kingdoms’ councils that this would give both rulers the chance for interaction, and to meet frequently to discuss the terms of marriage.

            Kyle doubted that his council saw nothing wrong with the Princess’s recent cold behavior, though he did believe that they were calendar-watchers first, and their top priority was ensuring that they followed Kyle’s parents’ laws and wishes to the letter. Meaning that it mattered little to them who Kyle married… provided that that person was noble. And Princess Kenny was the only current candidate.

            Kyle wanted nothing to do with any of it, but he remained both respectful and vigilant.

            At the closing of their first meeting regarding possible marriage arrangements (which was little more than the Princess’s council lauding her achievements and beauty in hopes that something in there would make Kyle completely see their side and stop complaining), Kyle tried to leave with one of his usual, “I’m going to take a ride,” excuses. He caught Stan’s eye as he said it, and Stan hardly had to react to show that he understood.

            But one of the Princess’s attendants spoke up: “An excellent idea, my lord. The Princess will accompany you.”

            Kyle wanted to set the attendant on fire.

            “Oh, yes,” said the Princess, commanding eye contact from Kyle. Had her eyes always been so very _ice_ blue? “That would be lovely.”

            “What, a tour?” Kyle asked. “Princess, you had quite an extensive tour on your last visit just three years ago.”

            “And I’m sure much has changed since then.”

            Quite unexpectedly, Stan said, “I think it’s a fine idea, my lord.”

            Kyle gasped and turned to face him. Stan managed a faint enough smile so that only Kyle could catch it. “If she is to become Queen, sire,” said Stan, “what better introduction to the kingdom than to meet the people? I’d be honored to lead the party.”

            Kyle nodded, knowing his knight had some sort of plan. “Yes,” he said, trying to calm the turns his stomach was making. “Thank you, Stan. But,” he managed to add, “if this is to be a proper tour of the kingdom, let’s set out tomorrow morning. It’s rather late.”

            Kyle watched some of his councilors breathe relief, as though he’d finally spoken sense about something. “It’s late,” he insisted, setting his gaze on those he’d caught. And now they knew that they had been caught, and bowed their heads. “Setting out now would be foolish.”

            “In that case,” said the Princess, offering Kyle her right hand, “I shall see you at the feast tonight.”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, staring at her hand before obliging to hold and kiss it. Her fingers were cold. Her lands were indeed warmer in climate; she may have simply been adjusting to the weather, but Kyle remained cautious. “Until then.”

– – –

            Kyle wasted time in the library until he knew that Stan’s rounds would lead him there, at which point Kyle grabbed his knight by the arm and pulled him deep into the stacks.

            “What’s wrong?” Stan asked.

            “What isn’t?” Kyle returned, folding his arms. He was flushed, and could not quite look Stan in the eyes. Not after being cut off so rudely by his ward after confessing his love, and having had no long stretch of time to talk about it with Stan afterward. Love was something that Kyle clung to preciously, and he did not want it to feel rushed. “The Princess is quite literally giving me chills.”

            Stan set his hands on Kyle’s shoulders, which caused Kyle to draw in a small gasp and, at last, look Stan in the eyes. At all the life and wonder in his dusk blue eyes. “Are you well, Kyle?” Stan asked, keeping his voice low in case anyone should overhear.

            “I’m not falling ill again, Stan,” Kyle promised.

            “You’re sure?”

            “Yes, Stan. I remember what being sick felt like, and this isn’t that.”

            Kyle had been sick only once, when he was eight years old, which was already once more than many elves ever were in their long lifetimes. It was not utterly unheard of for an elf to fall ill, but there had been a shock in the palace when a member of the royal family had taken sick. The causes of it were still speculated in whispers among gossips, but the fact that the King had once been ill at all was hardly ever spoken aloud anywhere in the kingdom.

            “She’s just… the Princess is _cold,_ Stan,” Kyle said. _“To the touch._ And in the eyes. Why did you suggest I lead her around the kingdom? Like _that?”_ Kyle added, recalling that Stan had even bent to the council’s wishes and made mention of Kenny as the future Queen.

            “It will be a good judge of character,” Stan said.

            Kyle smiled. “Oh, you are brilliant,” he complimented his knight.

            Stan laughed a little, keeping it soft. “We both know that the Princess is at heart a good person,” he said. “If she’s truly changed, how she acts among the common people will be the perfect test.”

            “Oh, thank you, Stan,” Kyle said, pulling him into an embrace. “Hang the council, you’re the only voice of reason I need.”

            “Maybe don’t say things like _hang the council_ in the library, of all places.”

            Kyle laughed and stepped back. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But you do feel it, too? That something is off?”

            “Very much so,” Stan said. “I’m here, Kyle. I’m going to help you however I can. You know that I will.”

            The library door opened and closed. Kyle snuck a look around the corner of the shelves he and Stan were hiding behind and saw one of his tutors. “Damn,” Kyle said in a whisper. He turned back to Stan and said, “I have a lesson. Letter-writing. I’m nineteen, I know how to write all manner of letters.”

            “I’m sure you can find a way to humor your advisors for another six months,” Stan encouraged him.

            “I admit I am trying,” Kyle said with a grin. It softened to a smile, and he clasped Stan’s arm. “Meet me tonight?” he asked. “I’ll leave a trail for you.”

            “And I will find you,” Stan promised. “I always do.”

* * *

            When, at seven years old, Stan had completed his first month of schooling as a page, he eagerly sought out Kyle one afternoon in hopes of being quizzed on all he had managed to learn in that span of time. The two had played together every day between their separate teachings and dinnertime, and every day Stan’s Elven pronunciation improved, and they both became ever more delighted to have a friend to share thoughts and news with.

            They met in the sunny gardens that day, under the watchful eye of a few palace attendants and elder knights, Kyle with a lesson book in hand and Stan with a brand new wooden training sword affixed to his belt.

            “They say that soon we’ll practice defensive stances,” Stan boasted, showing off his training sword. “Before we can advance, we must spar with a squire.”

            “Oh, how delightful!” Kyle said, eyes bright with genuine happiness. “Your classes, Stan, you like them?” he asked. Kyle had started calling his best friend _Stan_ rather than _Stanley_ within a week of knowing him. It had simply rolled off the tongue one day, and Stan liked it, so it had stuck. “And the other pages, do you like them, too?”

            “Well… oh, well, the classes,” said Stan, “they’re wonderful, Kyle. I want to do my best so that I may serve as a knight when I’m older. The other pages, they, well… I started late. And my tutors still offer the lessons in Human because of me. I’m… I’m still getting to know them, is all.”

            Kyle’s light seemed to fade. He hugged his book to his chest and asked, “They aren’t unkind to you, are they, Stan?”

            Stan flushed with embarrassment. “Oh… no, no,” he said, which was not entirely true, but he did not want Kyle to worry. “I have so much to learn from them, really! I’m just a little behind because I started late, Kyle, that’s all. Once I catch up, everything will be well, I know it. What about you?” he asked, deflecting. “Did you learn anything new today?”

            Kyle hesitated, giving Stan a concerned look over to make sure he was feeling all right. Stan was so eager to learn and fit in that his optimism outshone his unease, and Kyle could tell that a new topic of conversation was all Stan needed at the moment. So he smiled, and coaxed Stan to sit in the grass with him so that he could open up his book and show Stan the beautiful illuminated sigils painted inside.

            “This is wonderful, Kyle,” Stan remarked, looking at the pages with wide eyes. “What is it?”

            “It’s my first spell book!” Kyle announced with pride.

            Stan lit up, and his smile turned to a broad grin. “Kyle!” he exclaimed.

            Kyle laughed a little. “My tutor said I’ve come very far with my basics, so I’m ready to hone my Sight,” he said.

            “What is the Sight?” Stan asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

            “You don’t know?” Kyle said, looking eager to explain. Stan shook his head. “I guess not. It’s something all elves are born with, but humans can learn it, too! It allows you to see things from far away, and in the dark, and sometimes even through illusions. It lets you see the magic you’re most drawn to.” He stood up and announced triumphantly, hands on his hips, “My tutor says I have the gift of fire. Isn’t that exciting? He knows because I can see will-o’-wisps, and can tell natural fire from magical.”

            Stan’s face brightened. “That’s amazing!” he exclaimed. “You’re so lucky, Kyle, how exciting.”

            “Well, I am a prince,” Kyle boasted. “I’ve got to learn how to use it!”

            Stan laughed. “Me, too!” he said, standing up beside his best friend. “I want the Sight, too! That way, I can always find you, even in the dark, and… and maybe even learn some magic. We can practice together.”

            Kyle excitedly grabbed Stan’s hands. “Yes, you must!” he said. “Once you’ve learned to read Elven sigils, Stan, we must appeal to your tutors. I’m sure you’ll learn it quickly. You’ve been a remarkably quick study so far.”

            Stan beamed at the compliment. “I just want to do what I can so I’ll be a good knight someday,” he said modestly.

            Kyle smiled, and looked Stan steadily in the eyes. “You, my friend,” he said, “will be the greatest knight the land has ever known.”

* * *

            When Stan’s nightly rounds were complete, he left through a side door of the palace, ordering the night guards to inform the Princess and her paladin that he was extending his watch to the outer fields for the evening should they ask after him. The guards nodded, and Stan slipped away toward the stables. Something in the air told him, however, that he would not find Kyle there, not tonight.

            Stan paused for a moment and glanced around, looked up once at the stars, then closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and fixed his Sight on the forest. The myriad warps of magical thread shimmered into view—copper and silver and red and beyond—and pulsed with the forest’s innate power. These were threads that could be seen by many, but touched by very few. As a sorcerer, Kyle knew how to locate and weave the magic of the forest, but there were many elves, even in the court, who only had the gift of Sight and not conjuring. It required a focus that came naturally to elves, but had to be rigorously learned by humans.

            Stan had honed his Sight since boyhood, and was an excellent tracker… especially when it came to finding Kyle. When they were children, Kyle would sometimes hide to test Stan’s ability (to the utter panic of the council), and while his aura had spun new strands as Kyle grew and matured, Stan always knew just what to look for.

A few of the forest’s threads gleamed with Kyle’s firey bronze influence, and Stan smiled. Stan followed the threads that he could find, until he came to a tree that had a fresh notch carved into it. He looked up into the canopy overhead, grinned, and began to climb.

            There indeed sat Kyle, dressed in one of his usual crimson robes, wooden crown slightly askew from the angle at which he leaned back against the tree’s sturdy trunk.

            “At last,” Kyle said, flashing Stan a fond smile. “I was afraid I might fall asleep before I could see you.”

            “I do have some duties to attend to, you know,” Stan said with a laugh.

            “And you perform them so marvelously, I’m sure no one would notice you sneaking away to discuss urgent matters of the state,” Kyle said.

            “Oh, certainly,” said Stan. He sat down beside Kyle on the generous branch, and glanced down at the basket that now sat between them. “Apples?” he wondered.

            “I had to do _something_ up here,” Kyle pointed out. He took one of the apples out for himself, shined it on his robe, and took a bite.

            Stan loved that about Kyle. He loved many things about Kyle, but one was the fact that, even when Kyle was stewing about something, he’d still be productive in some way. Stan followed suit, and the two of them sat in their veil of leaves for a silent minute, eating their apples and looking out at the palace.

            “Don’t you find it odd,” Kyle said after a pause, “that the Princess’s sister is nowhere to be seen?”

            “No?” Stan wondered. “I didn’t see to the rest of the party’s entry, so I suppose I assumed she would be here. Princess Karen goes everywhere with Princess Kenny.”

            “Exactly,” Kyle said, glaring at the palace. He took a defiant bite of his apple. “I don’t like this. Any of this. But I haven’t any proof that something’s wrong.”

            “And the council isn’t listening,” Stan said.

            “They never do, but now it’s just infuriating,” Kyle said. “My parents appointed everyone on that council and trusted that they would prepare me to rule should the need arise. Well, the need is here, the need has come and gone, and I’m still a child to them. I’m still malleable. I can’t do a single thing until I’m twenty and can change the law.”

            “Is there no one on the council you can trust to sway the others?” Stan wondered.

            “I have a few who dissent,” Kyle said, and sighed, “but it’s a matter of majority, unfortunately. I simply can’t understand it.” He started to toss his apple core, then thought again and set it down into the basket. “And none of them find Princess Karen’s absence strange,” he complained. “I _know_ Kenny. Or, I _knew_ her.” He paused, and leaned forward onto his knees.

            “She won’t listen, either? Have you tried catching her alone?” Stan asked. He set his apple core down in the basket as well, then moved the basket to his other side and sat closer to Kyle. He wrapped his right arm around his best friend, and felt the heat of Kyle’s unease and anger rise around him. Stan rested his head on Kyle’s shoulder, to help him relax.

            Kyle took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “She doesn’t blink, Stan,” Kyle said.

            “What?”

            “Not once since she’s come,” Kyle said. “Watch her, you’ll see. She doesn’t blink anymore.”

            Stan sat back in shock. He had not had many opportunities to view the Princess since her arrival, but he trusted Kyle’s observations completely. Especially when it came to Princess Kenny.

            The Princess had worn a scarf over the lower half of her face around the public and even around friends since the battle against the Demon King. She had been burned in the fight, really little more than a patch of red on her jaw, but she was ashamed of the mark, especially considering that so much of her power came from her beauty, even as a child. Because she hid the lower half of her face, her eyes were her expression. And the Princess most definitely blinked. But, apparently, not anymore.

            “What do you suppose that means?” Stan wondered.

            “I don’t know exactly,” Kyle said, looking over at him. “But I hold to my suspicion that the warlocks have something to do with this. A forced marriage without dialogue? No Princess Karen? The _paladin?_ I wish I had more people on my side, Stan. Do you think that you and I alone can possibly uncover the truth of this?”

            Stan smiled, and hugged Kyle tightly. “I believe that together, Kyle, you and I can do anything. No matter the obstacle.”

            Kyle returned the embrace, and Stan held on for a warm, blissful moment. Stan’s heart pounded in his chest, but he did not wish to break contact. Not yet.

            But in his mind and in his heart and in his soul were Kyle’s words from the hill. Kyle loved Stan, he had said. And Stan… Stan had been in love with Kyle for years, never daring to say the words exactly. He would let it show in little ways, but he knew better than to be caught by Kyle’s advisors for saying the wrong thing. Friendship had turned to love so naturally for Stan, and he had said it in so many different ways, now, that he needed to gather his courage to be direct.

            He felt that he was about to, as well, when a voice came from overhead: “They’re looking for you, your highness.”

            “Gods and spirits!” Kyle snapped in alarm, jerking his head skyward. “Must you?”

            The space above the two of them laughed, but nobody made himself known. The rustling of leaves was enough to say that the person was gone.

            “If Feldspar does that _one more time…”_ Kyle began.

            Stan laughed a little, and drew out of the embrace. He would tell Kyle another time. When they did not need to be rushed. “At least,” Stan said, “the Creek is on your side.”

            “On my side and on my nerves,” Kyle said, rolling his eyes. He then looked out at the palace, where a few torches had been lit. “Oh, for the pit of every hell,” he muttered. “I forgot about the stupid banquet.”

            “In your defense, you have already eaten,” Stan said, handing back the basket.

            “Yes,” Kyle laughed, “that is precisely what I’ll tell them.”

            Stan laughed a little as well, and then, as had become usual, climbed down first. He scanned the forest for signs of others, then trilled a bird call up to Kyle to signal that it was safe. Stan offered a hand to Kyle when he was close enough to the ground, and although Kyle was an excellent climber, he accepted.

            Kyle cast another worried glance toward the palace.

            “Shall I escort you?” Stan offered.

            “No, no,” Kyle said, “that might arouse suspicion, if you’re meant to be relieved of duty for the evening. It’s all right. I’ll come up with something of an excuse for being late.” Kyle trailed off, and sighed.

            Full of concern, Stan placed his hands on Kyle’s shoulders. “It will be all right,” he said. “I’m here. We’ll find out what’s going on. I promise.”

            Kyle managed a small smile, and said a relieved, “Thank you, Stan. Good night.” And, before he could help himself, Kyle moved in close and left a kiss on Stan’s cheek.

            He pulled back, flustered, and Stan, too, had flushed red. Not knowing entirely what to do but knowing he needed to act, Stan thought quickly, steadied his nerves, and gently took up Kyle’s right hand. He kissed the back of it, said a fond, “Good night,” and left for the side path back to the palace. He would keep Kyle in his sight until Stan knew he was safely inside, but Stan’s heart was pounding for the rest of the evening.

– – –

            In the morning, Stan ordered one of his men to saddle three horses, and he rode behind Kyle and the Princess as Kyle led the way down the road that ran from the palace into the nearest town. Kyle had announced to both councils that he would be taking Princess Kenny sightseeing, but of course he planned to make plenty of stops to speak to people in each settlement along the way. Stan loved Kyle’s dedication to every civilian in the kingdom, and was always happy to accompany him on trips into the different towns.

            The first mark against the Princess that Stan and Kyle both noticed straight away was her reluctance to ride at all. “Why not take a carriage?” she had asked Kyle when Stan presented the horses.

            “So much of the majesty of Larnion is lost when viewed through windows,” Kyle had said on the spot, after exchanging a look with Stan. “I assure you, Princess, it’s best to ride.”

            To which Stan had added, “It’s a fine day for it, my lady.”

            The Princess glared at Stan, and waited until she had mounted her horse to answer, “If I wanted a knight’s opinion, I would ask for it.”

            The comment bore a pit in Stan’s stomach, but he weathered it and followed along behind, keeping a cautious eye on the Princess all the while. Was this really, he wondered, the same Princess Kenny who had visited not three years prior with her sister? Could this truly be the same woman who had joined Kyle and Stan both in friendly competitions in their early adolescence? Who was known to go on hunts barefoot, and eagerly used to talk about her kingdom’s exploits at sea? The same Princess Kenny who once had _thanked_ Stan for not throwing a practice swordfight in her favor?

            She hardly seemed to be herself. Even riding, her back and her elbows seemed too rigid, too practiced. Too cold.

            Princess Kenny rode side-saddle, as was expected of nobles, but Kyle did not. Kyle preferred to wear riding trousers and rode as if at any second he could be called to battle, back straight, eyes ever alert, with his thin sword strapped to his belt. It was one of the few battles against his council that Kyle had completely won.

* * *

            It was Stan who taught Kyle how to truly ride. Stan had seen Kyle easing his white horse into a dainty, lithe canter in the training field, sitting side-saddle and holding his elbows all wrong, and Stan had said to him when they were alone, “That was miserable. You must learn how to ride.”

            “I know how to ride,” said Kyle, who had just turned fifteen. “You saw me. Didn’t you?”

            “I saw you sitting on a horse that was moving,” said Stan. “You can’t glide on a show mare into battle. That is ineffectual, and you do look ridiculous.”

            Kyle crossed his arms. “I ride in the manner reserved for nobility. Besides, who’s to say I’ll be called to battle?”

            “Kyle, you ache for battle,” Stan observed, correctly. “You who brought down the Demon King when you were nine years old. Adventure lives inside you. Do not suppress it and package it up with neat little bows. That isn’t you.”

            Sulking somewhat, Kyle said, “My tutors seem to think that it is.”

            “Your tutors are just afraid, because your parents fell during wartime,” Stan pointed out. Kyle nodded solemnly. “They’re trying to soften you. I’ve seen it. You’ve said it yourself. Don’t extinguish your flame, Kyle, feed it.”

            “Oh, and straddling a horse will help me to do that?”

            “It’s a start,” Stan said with a grin.

            Kyle agreed to a lesson and met Stan the following day in proper riding attire, leaving his robe behind completely. After Stan had saddled up a young stallion that had been broken in but had no primary rider, Kyle asked, “So, what shall I do?”

            “Well, first of all, up you go,” said Stan, lacing his fingers together like a basket and kneeling at the horse’s side.

            Kyle thought the gesture was kind and well-meaning, so he stepped onto Stan’s offered hands and let Stan hoist him up onto the back of the chestnut steed. It was a much more rugged creature than Kyle’s white mare, but he sat astride it in the same fashion.

            Stan laughed. “No, no, swing your right leg around,” he said. “Like this.”

            Kyle looked over as Stan fitted his left foot to the stirrup of his own horse’s saddle, and effortlessly pulled himself up so that he straddled the horse’s back. Kyle felt heat rise into his cheeks, and would know for years to come that that was the very moment that he completely fell in love with Stan. It was no longer simple infatuation; it was true, honest love. It was a combination of everything, of the gentle way Stan treated the animal, of his soft, kind laughter, of his generosity to Kyle; it was his newly cut, beautiful black hair, and his strong arms and careful hands, and it was his smile, and _oh,_ his eyes. His beautiful evening eyes.

“I’ll fall,” Kyle said, practically blurted.

            “You won’t fall,” Stan insisted.

            “How do I know that if you’re not standing here to catch me?”

            Stan could not argue, and dismounted. He reached up to set a hand on the small of Kyle’s back, and kept another on the horse’s reins. “I’m here,” he said.

            “Yes,” said Kyle. “Thank you.” With some effort, he managed to sit so that he straddled the horse. How uncomfortable and unpleasant, he thought… but he trusted Stan, and wanted to share an activity with him.

            He watched as Stan once again mounted his own steed, and was quite afraid that he was indeed in love. But he welcomed it, and Stan’s lesson became the most fascinating thing Kyle had ever heard. He followed Stan’s every word, and proved to be a quick learner.

            They continued the lessons for days, just as they had when one would teach the other anything fascinating and new across the years, and it was with heavy reluctance that Kyle’s advisors finally relented to allowing the young King to ride for sport as often as he wished. It would tire him, they warned at first, just as they had with many other activities. Kyle hated having limits imposed upon him, and Stan knew this, and always kept it in mind when the two spent time together.

            And it was riding out into the kingdom with Stan that Kyle enjoyed the most, for that was when he felt the most free of burdens, free from all tethers of time and space. He never wanted to share the activity with anyone but his knight.

* * *

            Kyle was noticeably uncomfortable for having the Princess at his side for the tour about the kingdom, but Stan internally commended the way Kyle remained diplomatic.

            “You’ll notice that the towns will be quite busy,” Kyle was saying as they rounded a curve in the well-worn dirt road that led past the palace gates and into the hillside village that cascaded through and beyond the limits of the forest. “The harvest festivals are coming to a close at the next full moon.”

            “I see,” was all the Princess said, hardly paying attention as a cart passed them.

            Kyle glanced back at Stan, then narrowed his eyes at the Princess. “Am I boring you, Princess?” Kyle asked, as they began their trek into the village and toward the market square. “We’ve only just set out. You can return to the palace if you’re not going to give a thought to the people and the customs of my kingdom.”

            Rather than answer his question, the Princess asked one of her own. “Tell me, King,” she said, “why do the festivals of the common folk interest you at all?”

            “Why— _why?”_ Kyle repeated, flustered. “Princess, this is _my kingdom._ Every person who resides in it is as important to me as the next, for without them, there would _be_ no kingdom.”

            “I see,” said the Princess, flatly. She set her eyes on Stan, then stared forward again. “But I do not believe that there is no one person you hold in higher regard than any other.”

            “Well…” Kyle said, clearly searching for words but keeping his poise, “surely there are some stations and tasks that have more weight than others, but that does not mean that the others are to be dismissed or altogether ignored.” He paused, then said, “Haven’t you said something similar yourself in the past? About how your sea ports are just as important as your farms and orchards?”

            “Oh, _naturally,”_ said the Princess. “All drive profit. Who cares about some harvest festival or other so long as the commoners do their work.”

            Kyle was flushed with anger, and Stan knew that he’d need to intervene or come up with a distraction soon, before the King could completely lose his temper. “Is _that it?”_ Kyle snapped at the Princess. “You come here not for peace or diplomacy or love but out of _greed?_ Is that _really—”_

            No sooner had they rounded the corner to the market than the loud barking of a large dog could be heard. Stan called out a command to stop the horses, and glanced around to find that a dog hitched to a post by a stall had its teeth bared and fur on end—and it was glaring straight up at the Princess.

            The dog continued barking, and the elven man operating the stall tried to calm it. When that did nothing, the man turned and bowed to the Princess. “Your highness,” he said, “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what’s come over him.”

            “Calm that beast,” the Princess ordered.

            “I-I will try, your highness, but—”

            “Is that the best you can _do?”_

            Kyle cast a concerned glance back at Stan, and both dismounted. While Kyle had a few words with the merchant, Stan quickly sought out a meat stall, purchased a small sampling, and walked back over to offer it to the dog. The animal was calmed with Stan’s offering, and Stan, who cared a great deal for animals, petted the dog until he was sure the growling was done.

            The Princess had said nothing else through the ordeal. She simply stared, unblinking, at every motion. Stan caught her staring, and even then she did not look away. This woman, Stan decided then and there, could simply not be Princess Kenny. But he had no current ideas as to how he could expose her. No one from the council had accompanied them that day; they could very easily pass off the interaction as exaggeration, and would probably not think much of the merchant’s own account.

            Stan had all the evidence he needed for himself; getting the council to see that something was amiss was a different matter entirely.

            Kyle apologized again to the merchant for any trouble, then turned to his knight and said a relieved, “Thank you, Stan.”

            “Think nothing of it, my lord,” Stan answered, and smiled. To the merchant, Stan added, “I’m sure it was simply the shock of seeing a visitor from another realm that spooked your dog, good sir. The court will not press charges.”

            “Thank you, Sir,” the merchant said, still out of sorts from the dog’s outburst. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

            “Even if it does,” Stan said, “it only means you’ve found yourself an excellent guard dog. We’ll be on our way. Please don’t let this impede on your celebrations.”

            “You’re too kind, my liege,” said the merchant. After Kyle had mounted his horse again, the merchant bowed to him and added, “Thank you, sire.” And to the Princess, “I’m terribly sorry for the intrusion, Princess. I hope that you enjoy your stay in Larnion.”

            The Princess only answered, “Hmm.”

            Stan exchanged one last worried glance with Kyle, then mounted his horse again and led the way through and out of the village, since it was clear that the Princess was not going to enjoy a moment of dwelling there.

            When they were back on the road, Kyle rode forward to take up the lead, and the Princess hung back, and leaned in to speak to Stan. “Since when does a _knight_ have any say in whether the court will press charges against a commoner?” she hissed.

            “I am Captain of the Guard, my lady,” Stan answered firmly. “I know well which struggles are worth pursuing and which can be handled peacefully and without issue. It is my duty to see to the well-being of this kingdom and all who reside in it.”

            “I see.”

            Uninterested in further conversation, the Princess moved away from Stan, but made quite sure that he saw her ride directly beside Kyle for the continuation of her tour through the kingdom. Stan shuddered. He couldn’t let himself appear to be any sort of threat to the betrothal, however unjust it was. Stan could not let the Princess catch onto just how highly regarded Stan was among the knights and citizens of the surrounding towns. Stan could not put his position at risk before he knew just what was wrong.

            The tour continued for a few hours, with Kyle narrating to the Princess the stories of his realm and the achievements of each settlement. They rode back through the marked roads of the forest, and arrived back at the palace as the sun was setting. Stan dismounted first and helped first Kyle and then the Princess down, and sent the horses away with one of his door guards.

            Before they could retire inside, Stan asked, “Did you find your tour of the kingdom enjoyable, my lady?”

            The Princess glowered at him.

            “You know,” said the Princess, hollowly, to Kyle, “in my kingdom, knights are much more well-behaved.” Casting her gaze on Stan, she added, “They only speak when spoken to.”

            Stan looked away from her, well aware now that Kyle was right: she did not blink. Kyle intervened, saying, “I value my guard, Princess. We elves believe in a mutual trust between all members of the court.”

            “Trust is one thing,” said the Princess. “Speaking out of place is another.”

            “Stop,” Kyle snapped at her.

            “Whatever have I done?” the Princess asked, her inflections hardly changing.

            “I will not have you mistreating anyone in my court, do you understand?” Kyle said strongly. “I don’t know what you really want, or what at all is going on in my council, but I truly thought you were better than this, Princess.”

            “I am,” she said.

            “What?”

            The Princess glared at Kyle, then narrowed her eyes at Stan. She pushed past him, her frigid arm hitting Stan’s as she passed. And she said, directly to Kyle as she all but ignored Stan’s presence, “Better than _this.”_ And then she was gone, walking with deliberate strides back into the palace.

            When he knew she was gone, Stan shivered from the momentary contact, and he lifted his head to catch Kyle’s worried gaze. They shared a look for a moment, each understanding that they would meet to discuss the day when they could.

            But Kyle did say, just above a whisper, “I’m so sorry, Stan.”

            Stan affected a smile, but couldn’t even muster up a lie of, _It’s all right._

            Kyle understood, and as the two returned inside themselves, Kyle placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder, sharing his warmth upon contact to counteract the Princess’s uncharacteristic chill.

            As they moved into the palace, Stan took notice that the Princess was ascending the stairs in the main hall, presumably to turn in for the evening or freshen up before dinner. At the foot of the stairs, she was met by her paladin, who simply gave her a solemn nod, and then held his post at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, looking toward Stan and Kyle, before silently following the Princess upstairs.

– – –

            Late, late into the evening, Stan and Kyle met in the stables, and sat with their backs against the far wall, guided by Sight and the sliver of moonlight that filtered through the windows. Kyle was already tired. Tired of the Princess, tired of the meetings, tired of his council. Tired of meeting Stan like this and only like this. There was still no time to talk of love, nor anything, really, other than their current theories on the Princess.

            “She’s certainly not who she was,” Stan agreed that evening.

            “Exactly,” Kyle said with a sigh. “How… _how_ does no one on her council see it? How does no one on _my_ council see it?” Before Stan could answer, Kyle continued: “They’re blinded by politics and the Princess’s ability to charm, and I can’t stand it. Oh, no matter that the Princess is hardly so much as a rippled reflection of the woman I remember. No. Best get married and forget all that, certainly everything will be just fine once we’re a happy couple with a nice, huge kingdom! Because what’s more important than _land and resources?”_

            “I know,” Stan said comfortingly. He set a hand on Kyle’s shoulder for reassurance. He felt Kyle relax a little, but the King still looked worried. “I hate to see the pain this is causing you, Kyle,” Stan said.

            Kyle turned to look at him, tried to smile, and then just sighed again. “I’m so glad I have you, Stan,” Kyle said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

            Stan felt heat rise in his face somewhat, and he managed a smile for the both of them. “Well,” he said. “If no one else will listen to you, Kyle, then let these evening meetings be our counterattack. We can expose the Princess’s strange behavior if we understand what the cause of it might be. Is it possession, do you think?”

            “Well, I certainly _do_ suspect the warlocks,” Kyle said, “but this isn’t exactly as cut and dry as the child who was possessed by the Demon King.” They both shuddered at the mention. “What was his name, again? Clyde? No matter. The point is, when the warlocks had the Stick of Truth, they found a vessel for its magic to overtake. And while the relic may be gone, that horrid Wizard still does have manipulative influence. Banished or no, he’s surely found some way to crawl his way back into the ranks of the warlock sovereigns. The Princess herself may at times be calculating, but the Wizard much more so. I’d suspect possession, too, but the Princess is acting _just enough_ like herself to make me fear otherwise.”

            “What, that she’s actually turned to their side?” Stan wondered.

            “I’m not sure. And it’s not so much that as… Stan, she is _cold,”_ Kyle said. He shuddered again, and Stan drew him in closer. It was not like Kyle to catch chills; his inner flame saw well to that. “She’s cold. She doesn’t blink.” Kyle drew a deep breath. “Stan, I’m afraid that she’s dead.”

            Stan gasped. “What?” he asked warily. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Kyle, are you suggesting that this is necromancy?”

            “I don’t know,” Kyle said nervously, “but I can’t rule it out. I know it’s a huge accusation, but think on it, Stan. Her words are clipped and all but rehearsed. Her eyes are ice and so are her hands. The Princess Kenny I knew was like the spring. Naïve, perhaps, but warm. This woman is… she’s cold as death, Stan. I really do fear that Princess Kenny is dead, and what has been sent to my kingdom is a reanimation.”

            Stan tried to steady his breath, but he could not argue the possibility. At the very least, he had not once heard the Princess laugh. He was also familiar enough with Kyle’s council to know that while each and every seated councilor was a powerful elf in their own right, their highest priorities were the laws of the land, which did sometimes interfere with their own Sight and better judgment.

            “Then…” Stan said, “if she is a product of warlock magic and is in whatever way under their control… how did it happen? And why is she here?”

            “And,” Kyle muttered, “did she really wish to marry me, or is that all part of whatever dark scheme this is, too?”

            “Kyle, we need reinforcements,” Stan said abruptly. He set his hands on Kyle’s shoulders and turned him so they were facing. Kyle paled and nodded. “I’ll try to alert my guard as best I can to have a stronger presence at the western borders, and to be on alert for suspicious behavior from the Princess. And her paladin. I don’t trust him, either.”

            “Nor do I,” Kyle agreed.

            “But we need more than that. We need…”

            “We need the Creek,” Kyle decided, and Stan nodded. “And anyone else we can trust to work outside of the council’s decrees.”

            “You’d have unilateral power if this comes to battle, is that right?” Stan asked.

            “Yes,” Kyle confirmed, “but I refuse to let this turn to war before we know what exactly it is we’re fighting. I refuse to turn to barbarism and put my kingdom at risk until I can protect them.”

            Stan smiled, and carefully brushed a hand against Kyle’s cheek. Kyle drew a soft gasp and asked, “What?”

            “It’s… well,” Stan said, gathering his thoughts. “You. You, Kyle, are going to be such a fine King once you rise to your full rank. Someday, and soon I hope, even your council will see that.”

            Finally, Kyle showed one of his usual smiles, and gratefully readjusted so that he sat with his head on Stan’s shoulder. “Oh, Stan,” Kyle said, wrapping his arms around his knight. “My Stan… my dearest friend. Thank you.”

            They lingered in the stables a while longer, until Kyle remarked that his absence was sure to be made known and the torches would be lit before long. Stan helped Kyle to his feet, and offered him an arm to act as escort back to the palace. Kyle took Stan’s offered arm without hesitation, and they made their way together to the winding path.

            As they were leaving, Stan noticed a shadow out of the corner of his eye—a silhouette of a man leaning back against the outer wall of the stables, just barely visible in his line of Sight. Stan chose not to confront the man outside; the silhouette was enough to show exactly who it was, and all this meant that Stan would have an altercation soon enough. It was possible the man had heard nothing, but it was more likely that Stan and Kyle would both need to watch their steps in the coming days.

            For the man outside was none other than Leopold, Princess Kenny’s trusted paladin and her kingdom’s champion. Leopold was the Princess’s eyes and ears and very possibly more, and his presence as of late was quite nearly more disconcerting than the Princess’s changed ways, for Leopold had thus far said nothing. He was a calculating warrior, to be sure. And strapped to his belt was a weapon that had brought armies to their knees.

            The Hammer of Storms, it was called. And it was the reason the paladin had earned among his enemies in battle the moniker of _Chaos._

– – –


	3. III. The Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan makes a request of Feldspar of the the Creek, and has an unfortunate altercation with the Princess's paladin.

            In the earliest light of the morning, Stan took to the thick of the forest, glad for the fog that could hide him but wary of the chill in the air. He fixed his Sight on the trees, watching for any new marks that may have been carved into them, or frayed warps in the threads around him.

            When he had walked far enough away from the palace that he was out of view from even the tallest spire, Stan pressed his back to the trunk of a large tree, cupped his hands to either side of his mouth, and sounded out a three-toned bird call into the forest. He received some answers, but none were what he had been hoping for. Stan glanced around until he noticed a notch carved into a tree several paces ahead, so he moved to that one and sounded his call again. He waited three seconds and sounded it a third time.

            A rustling sound came from beside him, and in a burst of smoke, a man appeared.

            Well, _seemed_ to appear.

            The man’s form was not entirely opaque, signaling that he was simply an illusion, a shadow self of the man who had conjured it. “We’re hunting,” said the illusory form of the man. “Is this urgent?”

            “It’s hard to say,” Stan answered. “I have a favor to ask, Feldspar.”

            Feldspar of the Creek, a chosen name of the person it belonged to, was usually a quiet man when he was in his element, a thief and a rogue who operated in silence and shadows. But to Stan, he was an informant, whose few words could speak volumes. It was Feldspar who had taught Stan how to navigate the forest, and how to use Sight. No other human, and no elf that Stan knew of, could best Feldspar in illusions, either. The conjured shadow selves were merely a sampling of what Stan had seen Feldspar accomplish.

            “I can hold this for two minutes,” Feldspar said.

            “Only two?”

            “I wasn’t very well expecting you, now, was I?”

            Stan let out a short sigh. “Very well,” he said. “I need to ask the two of you for added protection, not only of the forest, but of the western border.”

            “The western border?” Feldspar repeated, wrinkling his nose. “Are we going to war again?”

            “It’s hard to say,” Stan said. “And there’s little I can reveal yet, for there is still so little I know about the circumstances.”

            “But the kingdom is in danger?” Feldspar guessed.

            “Very much so, I’m afraid.”

            “Hm.” Feldspar was silent for a moment, and just as Stan feared he might lose his connection with the illusion, Feldspar answered, “We’ll move our watch closer to the palace, and send allies to the border.”

            “Discretion, though—”

            “Yes, yes,” Feldspar said. “You’ll hardly know our people are there.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said. “I’m in your debt.”

            “I’m only doing my duty, Sir, just as you are enacting yours.”

            “Yes, well. Oh, I should warn you. Be wary of—”

            Feldspar held up a hand. “If you’re going to mention names, wait until I’m in the same surroundings,” he warned. “Can’t be too cautious. But you have the Creek’s eyes and our steel, my friend. And you must remember, our aid is offered indirectly when given outside of battle.”

            “I understand,” Stan said with a nod. The Creek’s language was often one of riddles and secrets, as was the way of rogues and thieves for their own safety as well as those they served, but to be allied with them was worth their indirect methods. To be allied with the Creek was to have the very deepest shadows of the forest on one’s side, and Stan knew to watch for new notches in the trees that may mark traps, and when a message had more weight than its words would imply on the surface.

            “Good,” said Feldspar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

            “Of course,” Stan said. “Thank you, Feldspar.”

            Feldspar’s conjured form nodded, and then was gone.

            Stan breathed out a sigh, then wandered further into the forest, covering his tracks as he went until he made it to one of the marked roads, at which point he turned his course back toward the palace. He returned to the palace gates just as the sun had fully crested the horizon, and was back through the palace doors and in the main hall in order to stand with the best of his guard to greet Kyle as he descended the stairs for his own morning routines.

            The custom of the guard greeting the King in the morning was a simple one, but it was one that Stan cherished, and had not missed once since his appointment to his position. Kyle exchanged a few pleasant words with the other knights on duty that morning, and paused as always when he stood before Stan.

            “Good morning, my lord,” Stan greeted first. “Did you rest well?”

            “Well enough, yes,” Kyle said. “And you?”

            “The same,” said Stan. “Business for today, sire?”

            “To the library first, of all merciful things,” Kyle said, lowering his tone somewhat. Stan tried to hide a laugh.

            “Shall I escort you?” Stan offered.

            Kyle glanced up, and Stan followed his gaze to see that the Princess, trailed by a few attendants, was beginning her own descent down the second set of grand stairs in the main hall. Kyle’s chambers were situated in the northern hall, up the set of stairs to the left of the palace door, while the Princess, luckily, was staying in the eastern wing, up the set of stairs to the right.

            “Yes, please,” Kyle asked. “Right away.”

            “Of course.”

            When the two were out of earshot and close to the library, Stan leaned close and said, “The plan cannot simply be to _avoid_ her, Kyle.”

            “I know,” Kyle whispered back, “but I will when I can. The plan for this morning is at least to _read._ To find _something_ that might explain her behavior.”

            “A fine idea,” Stan complimented. He looked around to ensure they were alone, and said as they lingered outside of the library doors, “I’ve passed a message to the Creek.”

            Kyle lit up. “And?” he asked.

            “We have them on watch,” Stan said. “When we have more than mere speculation on our side, we’ll have their steel.”

            “Oh, thank goodness,” Kyle said. “Thank you, Stan.”

            “We’ll uncover the truth yet, Kyle, I’m sure of it.”

            Footsteps sounded behind them, so Stan put on an air of duty to open the library doors, but when he turned, only Ike had joined them, along with a personal attendant.

            “Ah,” Kyle greeted his ward, “good morning, Ike.”

            “Good morning, your majesty,” Ike said with a nod.

            “Ike,” Kyle said, “you know full well I’m not to be called _majesty_ until I’m twenty and married.”

            “Oh. Right. Your highness.”

            Kyle rolled his eyes. “And _Kyle,_ to you.”

            “Yes, I know,” Ike said, with a smile to show that he had been trying to make a joke. He turned his gaze to Stan and added, “Good morning, Sir Stanley.”

            Stan smiled. “Good morning, young lord,” he greeted. “Lessons with the King, I assume?”

            “Yes,” said Ike. He sighed. “And then _fencing,_ and then _spellweaving._ And no rest.”

            “Oh, quiet,” Kyle said with a slight grin. “You’ve no idea. You’re still young.”

            Ike bowed his head somewhat. “I suppose,” he said.

            “I’m only teasing,” Kyle said kindly. “Come on, then, let’s get started.” After Ike and his attendant had ventured into the library, Kyle set a hand on Stan’s shoulder and asked, “I’ll see you before the council meeting, then?”

            “Of course,” Stan promised.

            Kyle managed a light smile, then made his way into the library to begin the lesson for his ward.

* * *

            Because Stan had been knighted at the previously unheard of age of nine, his tutelage changed dramatically over the following few years, catching him up on a great number of things he would have learned as a squire, and harnessing his abilities to fit his new station. Countering the hours of war training, Stan received lessons in many other sundry practical things, and being trained by other members of the court beyond the elder knights won Stan a few additional friends. And, not to mention, gave him plenty of things to talk to Kyle about.

            When they were fourteen, Kyle found Stan at the hedgerow bordering the royal herb garden, where Stan was sat on a stone bench re-stringing a small harp. Stan was so wrapped in concentration tying an intricate knot that he barely heard Kyle approach.

            “Is there anything you can’t do?” Kyle asked.

            Stan looked up in surprise, but instantly smiled when he saw Kyle. “You know I’m rubbish with magic, for one,” Stan answered.

            “Oh, and I’m sure you’d excel if you tried,” said Kyle with a laugh. Kyle sat down on the stone bench beside Stan and leaned back, stretching out his legs and crossing his left ankle over his right. He was dressed for fencing, not in a robe but in a fine green tunic, black riding trousers, and a wide leather belt, affixed to which was the thin foil he’d been practicing with moments before. It was more expected of Kyle to learn the delicate, fashionable ways of fine weaponry, and leave the practical techniques to the knights. Fencing was one of Kyle’s least favorite activities because of this. “Let me guess,” Kyle said to Stan, looking at him sideways. “You built the harp, too.”

            Stan laughed. “If you’re so jealous of my training, Kyle, let’s switch classes,” he said.

            “Why, thank you, let’s,” Kyle said.

            Stan nudged him with the elbow closest to him, and Kyle laughed. “I didn’t build it,” Stan said, “it belongs to James. He’s being fitted for new braces in the village and I told him I’d do this for him while he’s away.” James was the son of the palace bard who had taught Stan how to play the lute. James could not walk well, but was a fine musician.

            “Ah, I see,” said Kyle. “You’re so good to do so many favors, Stan. How do you balance it all?”

            Stan shrugged and fitted a new string to the instrument. “I like helping people,” he said. “That’s all.”

            “You’re wonderful, Stan,” Kyle said. He quickly flushed and turned away, pretending to watch a flock of birds nearby. It was the first time Kyle had said something of the sort since developing romantic feelings for his best friend, and he had no idea how exactly to broach the subject without being painfully obvious.

            “As are you, Kyle,” Stan said in return. Kyle’s heart thudded in his chest and he glanced back at Stan, who was tying off the harp string. Kyle watched every precise motion of Stan’s nimble fingers as he went about his task, and felt himself smile. He realized that, above all, he was proud of Stan, and Kyle looked up to him in many ways.

            Stan set the harp down in the grass, finished with his task, and leaned forward over his knees to look up at Kyle. “How was fencing today?” Stan asked him.

            “Oh, the worst,” Kyle lamented, snapping himself back into the conversation. He leaned back and titled his chin skyward. “Utter torture.”

            “I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” Stan said. “You learn… footwork? Agility?”

            “Sheer nothingness,” Kyle said, looking back at Stan. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to the foil, “this isn’t a sword, it’s hardly a twig. I want to learn _real_ swordsmanship.”

            “I’d be happy to teach you,” Stan offered.

            Kyle’s heart skipped. “Would you?” he asked. “I can’t… I can’t think of what I could teach you in return.”

            “Nonsense,” Stan said. “It doesn’t have to be a trade. Besides, you keep helping me navigate the Sight. None of my other tutors seem quite convinced that I’m able to use it.”

            “Madness, really?” asked Kyle.

            “It’s true. But I rather like it being a secret,” Stan said. “It means I get to develop it as my own, and not as theirs. And I do have you to thank for most of what I know.”

            Kyle smiled for his friend, then turned and plucked a flower from the hedge behind him. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger a few times and said, “All right, then. I’ll keep helping you hone your Sight, Stan, of course I will. And I truly would love to learn _some_ of the way of the sword. That can be _my_ secret.”

            “Very well,” Stan agreed. When he sat back, Kyle, on a whim, tucked the flower behind Stan’s ear. Kyle flushed again when Stan did not try to shake it loose. Rather, Stan smiled warmly. “We can begin this afternoon if you like. I’ve no other duties for the day.”

            “That… that would be delightful,” Kyle said. “Thank you, Stan.”

            “It’s my pleasure.”

            Stan stood and offered a hand to Kyle, and Kyle took in gratefully, letting Stan draw him up to standing. They walked a few paces away from the hedgerow, to an open expanse of the manicured grassy garden field. “Now,” Stan said, gracefully taking the flower from behind his ear and tucking it into his belt, “what would you like to know?”

            “I… well, anything, really,” Kyle said, trying not to be distracted by the fact that Stan had kept the flower on his person. “I want to be able to fight, and defend myself.”

            “Okay,” Stan said, “show me what you can do with your fencing foil.”

            “No, it’s embarrassing,” Kyle insisted.

            “I need to know what you know so I can start you off correctly,” Stan said.

            “Oh, all right,” Kyle relented.

            Kyle slid his feet into the starting position he’d been taught and lithely drew his foil. He spun it back once before holding it out in his right hand, elbow loosely bent, with a flourish of his wrist. His left hand he held behind his back.

            Stan covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

            Kyle’s shoulders sank. “I _told you_ it’s embarrassing!” Kyle said.

            “No, no, I’m sorry, Kyle, it’s… you looked so _angry_ doing that,” said Stan. He bent over his knees and grinned up at Kyle before fully studying his stance. Kyle began to stand down, but Stan said, “Wait, please, no, don’t move. I need to figure out where to start.”

            Kyle sighed and resumed his starting position, keenly aware of the fact that Stan was giving him a look over. Kyle welcomed the affection he felt but hated how distracting it could be. Not being infatuated had been so much simpler, he thought at fourteen.

            “Hmm,” Stan said, “Well, you’re not bending your knees enough.”

            “I was told I wasn’t supposed to.”

            “Just observing.” Stan stood up and circled Kyle, tapping his left arm as he passed. “And you’re open to attack.”

            “Fencing is for show, Stan,” Kyle reminded him. “It’s utterly impractical.”

            “Yes, well, we can fix that.”

            Stan walked to Kyle’s right, and set both hands on Kyle’s lower arm. Kyle swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and willed his face not to flush red despite the rising heat, and tried to steady his breath as he watched Stan’s movements. “You’re holding on so lightly,” Stan observed.

            “I… well, as I told you, it’s…” Kyle fumbled.

            “No, no, I know. Tighten your grip. Strengthen your arm.”

            “Uh…” Kyle balled his fist around the foil’s hilt.

            “Kyle, you’re not going to _punch_ somebody with this sword,” Stan said.

            “Well, show me what to do!”

            “To begin,” Stan said, “bend your knees, and take the hilt in both hands. Learn the weight of it.”

            “There _is_ no weight of it,” said Kyle.

            “Hmm…”

            Carefully, Stan unfurled Kyle’s fingers and took the foil from his grasp and set it aside. Kyle cleared his throat and took a step back, and watched Stan draw his own sword. Stan was shorter than Kyle (by the length of Kyle’s littlest finger, they’d measured earlier that year), but he was growing taller. As his height increased with each year, Stan graduated to stronger and stronger swords, forming bonds with each new one, knowing that someday soon he’d find just the right one that would suit him for life.

            The only times Kyle had held a true sword had been for knighting ceremonies, and even then, they were ornate ones that never saw so much as a training field. Kyle set his hands on his hips and tried to quickly study the way Stan held and swung out his sword with such practiced ease, and Kyle was taken slightly off guard when Stan stepped to Kyle’s front and presented the sword to him across his left arm, keeping a trained hold of the flat ends of the steel so that the leather-wrapped hilt faced Kyle.

            Kyle stared at the weapon, then looked directly into Stan’s eyes. “Is this all right?” Kyle asked.

            “By all means,” said Stan.

            Kyle took a deep breath, and carefully wrapped both hands around the hilt of Stan’s finely crafted sword. The blade bore a few scuffs from his training exercises and hunting missions, but otherwise gleamed in the afternoon sun. Stan slowly let go of the blade with his right hand but kept it balanced against his arm. “Have you got a sense of it?” he asked Kyle.

            “I think so,” Kyle said, still staring at the sword, in awe of the fact that he was finally holding a real weapon.

            “Strengthen your grip,” Stan advised. Kyle tried. “Bend your knees.” Kyle did. “Don’t hold your breath.” Kyle tried not to. “I’m letting go.”

            Stan stepped back and dropped his left arm, and Kyle fell forward, the blade of the sword sinking downward and stabbing into the grass. Kyle yelped and managed to keep hold of the hilt, but the sword was easily several times heavier than the fencing foil. “I was bending my knees!” Kyle complained, flabbergasted.

            Stan laughed a little. “It’s all right,” he said.

            “This thing is an anvil!” Kyle said, picking his head up to look at Stan. “How on _earth_ can you just pick it up like any old thing?”

            “I’ve trained and worked up to it,” Stan said. “Sorry. We’ll start you off with one of my old ones.”

            Kyle, flushed with embarrassment, tried to hoist up the weapon again, but it did not come naturally. He relinquished the sword back to Stan, who spun it out a couple more times before he deftly sheathed it and handed Kyle’s foil back to him. Kyle stared down at the foil, holding the hilt in one hand and the balanced center of the blade, if he could call it a blade, in the other. “I don’t want to be weak, Stan,” he heard himself say.

            “What?” Stan said. “Kyle, you’re not weak.”

            “Apparently my council thinks I am,” Kyle said. He slid his foil back into the loop in his belt and folded his arms. “They refuse to let me near real weapons, and you just saw that I don’t possess the strength to wield one, anyway. They keep my conjuring lessons short, saying it’s so I won’t grow tired. But I _will_ become tired and I _won’t_ be able to heft a sword if they don’t let me _try._ And they never let me try. I don’t understand. I hate them.”

            “I’m sure they have your best interests in mind,” Stan tried.

            “My father would have let me use a sword,” Kyle said, and tears pooled in his eyes. “My mother would have let me go an extra hour to get a spell right.”

            “Kyle…”

            It hit Kyle all of a sudden, then, that the day marked five years since he’d received the news from the battlefield about his parents. He’d thought about them less and less with each passing year, mostly to keep himself moving forward, but his frustration allowed the pain to set in. “Oh…” was all he said, and Stan understood.

            Kyle cupped his hands over his face and let a few tears come, and Stan held him tightly. “They would be proud of you, Kyle,” Stan said in a calming tone. “They would be so proud of everything that you are and everything that you can do. Strength isn’t only a physical feat. You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

            Kyle drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He held onto Stan and let himself cry softly for a moment before saying, “Only because I have you, Stan. If I am in any way strong, it is all thanks to you.”

            Stan patted Kyle’s back, and they held on a moment longer.

            Though in many ways Stan felt the same, regarding his own strength, he did not say so, not that day. There were times when Stan would need to be Kyle’s strength, and times when Kyle would need to be Stan’s, and this was a day that called for the former.

            But, soon enough, Kyle did begin sword training with his knight; as with riding, the King was a quick learner, as he was eager to pick up the skill. And the two continued to lean on one another, in their daily lives and in their secret lessons, never wanting to be apart, for fear their strength would falter.

* * *

            The Princess requested that Stan stay out of the room during that afternoon’s council meeting.

            “Is Sir Stanley not Captain of the _Guard?”_ the Princess argued as she stood with members of her council outside the chamber doors, practically toe to toe with Kyle and his own council. As the Princess’s men and women filtered into the chamber, her paladin slipped in among them. This did not go unnoticed by Stan, who remained at Kyle’s side. “Should he not be _guarding_ the doors?”

            “I’ve plenty of trained men and women to handle such a job,” Stan said.

            “I wasn’t speaking to you,” the Princess snapped. “And how dare you speak to me without addressing me properly?”

            “Apologies, your highness,” Stan said, practically through gritted teeth.

            Kyle fumed, “Sir Stanley is my bodyguard, and has been for several years. I’ll not have you suggesting that he—”

            “This is not a suggestion,” said the Princess in an icy tone. “This is an _order.”_

            Kyle gasped, and could do nothing but stare, first at the Princess in anger, and then at Stan in fear. Stan braced himself but knew he could not protest.

            The Princess glowered at Stan and pointed one index finger in his direction. “I command you to guard these doors, knight,” she said harshly. “From the outside.” When Stan did not immediately respond, the Princess added, “Did you hear me? I command you to hold your position.”

            Nobility, even visiting nobility, and _particularly_ royalty outranked Stan, and he knew he needed to obey, lest the situation grow even worse for Kyle. “Yes, my lady,” Stan said, managing to mask his confusion and anger.

            Kyle’s eyes flared open wide. “Absolutely not!” he said. “Princess, I forbid you to—”

            “I am very tired,” the Princess said to Kyle in her new, clipped fashion. “And I do not like this constant presence of soldiers even in meetings of legislation. There is simply no reason for it. Don’t you want this to be a pleasant meeting, sire?”

            “Well, of course I—”

            “Then your guardsman stays at his post.”

            “I outrank you,” Kyle said flatly.

            “And I’ve more land to offer in this union. So, really, it’s all the same,” the Princess said. With that, she turned on her heel and strode inside the council chamber.

            Kyle and Stan stood in shock for a moment, watching her leave, and then Kyle pulled Stan aside and said, horrified, “Stan, I’m truly sorry, I’m afraid I don't know what to do.”

            “It’s all right,” Stan said, though of course things were precisely the opposite. “Appeal to your council if you can to change my permissions, but I think it’s best we don’t anger her any further, at least for the time being.”

            “I need you,” Kyle insisted. “I can’t do this alone.”

            “You won’t have to, Kyle, I’m here,” Stan said reassuringly. “And we’ll speak soon. For all we know, it’s just one meeting. Keep your head up, and be strong.”

            Kyle drew in a breath, then reached out a hand and squeezed Stan’s shoulder gently. “Thank you, Stan,” he said. “The same to you.”

            Stan forced a smile for his dearest friend, despite the increasing dread he felt with regard to the Princess and the entire situation around the negotiations. But seeing Stan smile made Kyle do the same, and that was all, in that moment, that Stan could ask for. When Kyle had gone into the council chambers, Stan dutifully closed the doors and held his position a few paces into the hall.

            He tried to steady his breath, but he could even sense the unease among the other knights that lined the hallway. Being relegated to simple tasks such as this was far beneath Stan, and all who followed him knew this, but the Princess had given an order, and Stan did not want to be the cause of any unnecessary turmoil.

            And, more than that, he did not want to risk his own position.

            For the weeks and months that had followed the Princess’s initial proposal letter to the King, consorts and advisors had visited from the southern human kingdom, and all of them had more or less treated Stan in the same manner. Knights were treated differently in the human realm; while Stan was not considered _nobility_ by the council of Larnion by any means, he was at the very least respected as a member of the court.

            But in Princess Kenny’s court, knights were primarily lawkeepers and footsoldiers. It was the paladins, the small, elite group of holy warriors imbued with the powers of the gods who were neither knights nor clerics, that were held in higher esteem among the humans.

            And so, certain expectations had also been imposed upon Stan and his army, even during those early visits. That, along with the council of Larnion being less tolerant of Stan’s use of the King’s given name in greeting and conversation, had put Stan in a position of being consistently cautious. He had worked so hard to rise to the station he held now—the highest he could achieve on his own merits—and he was not going to do anything to jeapordize that. He needed to do whatever he could to protect Kyle and all of Larnion, and he could not have asked for a more auspicious position than Captain of the Guard in order to achieve that.

            Not knowing what was being spoken about in the council chamber that day, though, not only worried Stan but horrified him. Kyle’s short temper and inner flame were not by any means secrets, and it seemed more and more lately that a part of the Princess’s plan, whatever it may have been, involved feeding that flame to the point of ignition. If Kyle became so fed up he burst, he would be the one charged with the first attack, should it come to battle between the kingdoms.

            But there was nothing amiss between Kyle’s kingdom and the Princess’s, and there hadn’t been for generations. There was the odd scuffle, but nothing close to war. Not in the way that both kingdoms had gone up against the warlocks to the west. And if the Princess truly was a reanimated corpse or other such creature sent by the warlocks and not truly herself… then, Stan needed to think of some way to counterattack in silence. Having the Creek to rely on was a start, but the storm was brewing from within.

            As Stan stood determining his next moves, and what he needed to speak about with Kyle when the two next met in secret, the large doors opened, and out stepped the Princess’s paladin, Leopold. He was a young man of Stan’s age, thin in stature but a terror on the battlefield, with golden hair that fell in deliberate waves to his shoulders. He never smiled, not anymore, otherwise he might have been quite beautiful. “Well,” he said as the doors closed behind him. “Sir Stanley.”

            “Leopold,” Stan returned, not turning to look at him. Stan was unnerved by the fact that this was the first the paladin had spoken since his arrival with the Princess, but Stan did not make his unease known.

            Leopold scoffed and moved to lean back against the wall beside Stan. The paladin folded his arms and studied Stan, his stance and his countenance, and then grinned. “You know,” Leopold said, “I don’t blame the Princess for leaving you out here. I’ve seen the way your eyes wander.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Stan, trying to keep his focus only forward.

            “Please. You’re in love with the King, aren’t you?”

            Stan froze, and tried to recover by saying, “I am in no position to fall in love with someone so noble.”

            “No, I’d say you’re not.” When Stan didn’t respond, Leopold continued, “Don’t forget where you came from, Stanley. You were raised out of nothing.” He laughed in his throat. “You’ll always be nothing. And he’ll always be King.”

            Leopold pushed off of the wall and circled Stan once, then stopped directly in front of him. Stan was significantly taller, but the look in Leopold’s stern, bright blue eyes was nearly enough to cow him. “The Princess knows,” said Leopold. “And she doesn’t like it. You wouldn’t want something terrible to happen, now, would you?”

            “I am the Captain of the Guard,” Stan said firmly. “You have no place issuing threats to me.”

            “Oh, I’m not making threats, Sir knight. I’m only stating facts. If you want to keep your position and keep your precious King alive, I’d suggest giving the Princess what she wants. She can remove you in an instant the moment she becomes Queen.”

            _Keep him alive?_ So there was treachery at work. But Stan could not feel justified; not with a warning like that. If anyone could follow through on such a threat, it was this very paladin, who harnessed the power of the most destructive force from the sky.

            “Can my King not do the same to you?” Stan challenged, despite the warnings.

            “No, you see…” Leopold reached for his belt and drew up his weapon—the well-crafted, weighted metal Hammer of Storms, which hummed with the air’s static current. “Unlike the court of Drow Elves, we are not afraid to use force to obtain and destroy whatever is necessary.”

            Stan held his ground. “You sound like the warlocks,” he observed.

            “And, really, is that so bad?” said Leopold. The paladin grabbed Stan by the front of his tunic and hauled him down. Leopold’s eyes narrowed, and he held his hammer directly beneath Stan’s chin, where Stan could feel the sparks from the weapon lick at the air around him. Leopold had all but admitted collusion, but the strength of his words was in the warning that shattered Stan’s entire world: “Keep your head down, Stanley. Keep your head down, or you won’t like the last thing you see.”

* * *

            The stables became their routine meeting place when Stan and Kyle were sixteen. Stan would often have duties there, and it was a place that Kyle’s advisors preferred not to linger around. One warm summer afternoon, when they still were sixteen, Stan met Kyle outside the stables after a particularly deplorable altercation with one of the more seasoned knights.

            “My tutor says I mustn’t call you _Kyle_ anymore,” Stan said, looking at the ground.

            “Which one?” Kyle demanded. “I’ll punch him. With fire.”

            Stan laughed, and lifted his head. “Please don’t do that,” he asked.

            Kyle smiled, pressed his back to the side of the building, and slid down to sit on the cool grass. Stan watched Kyle as he in turn watched the wind in the trees and across the fields; Stan watched as the light from the sun seemed to set Kyle’s hair ablaze into a beautiful fire, watched Kyle blink very slowly, regally, as he surveyed the land. Stan hesitated for only a moment, then sat down beside Kyle, tucking up his knees and resting his arms across them.

            “Why would he say that?” Kyle asked.

            “Hmm?”

            “Your tutor. Why would he ask you not to call me by name? We’re friends.”

            Stan sighed. “I know that, Kyle,” he said, “but everyone else seems to think we shouldn’t be.”

            “Everyone else is going to be out of a job when I turn twenty and can finally make laws,” Kyle said, without a hint of sarcasm.

            “Don’t dismantle your kingdom for me, Kyle.”

            “I would upend the world for you, Stan.”

            Stan’s breath caught. “Why?” he asked.

            “Because,” Kyle said, looking Stan directly in the eyes, “you are the dearest thing to me. You are my friend, and that’s more than anything your tutor or anyone else could ever understand.”

            Stan smiled. Life had been kind to him, and he knew that it was all thanks to Kyle. He owed Kyle his very existence, to be sure, but he wished that he could be devoted in more ways than one. Stan was grateful that he was able to see Kyle quite nearly every day, and grateful that he could serve his court in such a coveted position, but he still ached for more. He longed to see Kyle not just in the middle of the day, but first thing in the morning, with the sun gleaming in his bed-tossed curls, and late into the evening, moonlight and starlight shimmering in his brilliant green eyes.

            “What am I to do?” Stan asked, hardly realizing he’d spoken.

            “Keep your head up,” Kyle advised, smiling. “We’re best friends, Stan. And that’s something that no tutor, and no… no… no evil dragon could ever take away from us.”

            “Evil dragon?”

            “I’m being hypothetical here, Stan, humor me.”

            Stan laughed. “Well,” he said, propping his chin up in one hand. “I’ll just have to vanquish that dragon, then, won’t I?”

            “Goodness,” Kyle said, laughing as well, “but it pays to be best friends with the bravest knight in the realm.”

            Stan’s heart pounded, and he managed to smile as he gazed longingly at the face of his dearest friend. Finding his voice, he said, “I’m here for you, Kyle. Not just against hypothetical dragons. I’m here. I will always be here.”

            “I know,” said Kyle, placing a hand against Stan’s upper right arm. Stan did not try to hide the way his face flushed in that moment of contact, of skin against skin. “And please know, Stan, that I am here for you as well. I may not have much power yet, but I can still give a word or two to anyone who treats you wrong.”

            “Goodness,” Stan said, echoing Kyle’s own words though a smile, “but it pays to be best friends with the most benevolent King in all the world.”

* * *

            When the meeting adjourned, it was not soon enough, as far as Kyle was concerned. Everything about the meeting was wrong. Everything revolving around the negotiations felt wrong, and Kyle had the sense that only Stan could see it, too. He fully intended on divulging everything to Stan later in the evening when, he hoped, they would inevitably meet… but walking back out into the hall, Kyle felt something else amiss.

            The hall was quiet, and Stan stood in the same place the Princess had ordered him to remain on duty. He kept his eyes down, and bowed his head with a precise reverence as Kyle and the Princess walked by. Kyle’s heart stalled. Yes, that was proper behavior for a knight, but Stan… Stan knew he did not have to bow. After a few stunned paces, Kyle stopped abruptly; the Princess beside him and the council behind him stopped as well.

            Kyle turned, and found that Stan remained at his post, head and eyes down.

            “Stan?” Kyle asked. A member of the Princess’s council cleared his throat.

            Kyle felt, as of late, that his entire world—his kingdom, his life, and all he held precious—lay upon a great lake of ice. In this moment, he felt the surface begin to crack.

            “Sir Stanley?” he tried.

            “Yes, my lord?” Stan answered, his tone sad in a way that only Kyle could recognize as being so.

            “I… I don’t under—” Kyle stopped himself. Something was wrong. Too much was wrong. Leopold had left the meeting, and now the paladin was nowhere to be found, and Stan was acting strangely. Not strangely for a man of his position… only for Stan. Leopold had said something. Kyle did not know what, but he knew that Stan’s behavior was not by choice. To feel out the situation, Kyle asked, “Will you escort us to the dining hall?”

            Stan drew a labored breath. “As you wish, sire,” was all he said.

            Kyle watched as Stan, head bowed, walked to the front of the party and began to lead the way to the dining hall. Hurt and confused, Kyle followed. Beside him, the Princess held out her hand, but Kyle pretended not to see, refusing once again to show her the decency that she refused to show to him and to Stan.

            The Princess had changed, the paladin was up to something, and Kyle feared for what had just now happened to Stan. What could the paladin possibly have said or done? What could have altered Stan’s behavior so drastically over the course of a single meeting?

            A meeting that the Princess had ordered Stan not to attend.

            A chill went down Kyle’s spine. When the day had begun, he had been wary but hopeful that he and Stan were making progress. Now… now he had no way of knowing what was next.

            Stan ordered his guards to open the doors to the dining hall, then stood to the side to let the party through. In a daze, Kyle went along with the others, then turned and shoved his way to the back once both councils were already well inside. Kyle caught one of the doors before it was closed and stepped out.

            Stan had not moved. He was slightly observing the servants lighting the torches throughout the main hall, but was remaining stoic and silent.

            “Stan?” Kyle asked.

            Stan again bowed his head. “Yes, my lord?” he asked, still with some reluctance.

            “Stan, what is going on? What’s the matter?” Kyle said frantically. “What happened during that meeting? When the paladin left, what did he say to you? He must have said something to you, Stan, speak to me. Please.”

            “Nothing you need worry about, sire,” was Stan’s response. Which was precisely the indication that everything was all wrong. “I was given an order by the Princess to remain on guard.”

            “Stan…”

            “It is my duty to keep you safe, sire,” Stan said.

            Kyle tried to think of something else to say, but Stan had said enough. In some way, this was all a matter of protection. Kyle drew in a shaking breath and nodded. But still, he hated the forced distance between them.

            “Won’t you come in?” Kyle offered.

            “I can’t, my lord,” Stan answered.

            “What? Why not?”

            “The guard takes our meals in shifts, sire,” Stan said, still keeping his gaze down. “And I have my rounds to attend to.”

            Kyle stared at him, but Stan did not move his gaze in the slightest. His breathing was measured and his face was pale. His act, whatever this was, was hurting Stan as much as it hurt Kyle, if not more, but Kyle could not begin to fathom what precisely had brought it on. “Will I see you after your rounds?” Kyle asked.

            “If my lord wishes it.”

            A sting hit Kyle’s chest. “If— _no!”_ he said. “I don’t want to see you by command, Stan, I just… I want to talk to you, I _need_ to talk to you, I… I don’t understand what’s going on.” When he saw Stan struggling to formulate a response, Kyle said, “I don’t understand, but I will try. I… good night.”

            Stan’s response came again with difficulty: “And a pleasant evening to you, my lord.”

            Kyle’s heart sank. He thought about the night before, when the two had sat together, close as ever, in the stables; he thought about two nights prior, when they had been closer still… when Kyle had kissed Stan’s cheek for the first time since confessing his love, and Stan had reciprocated with a kiss to Kyle’s hand. Kyle longed for that again, ached for even more. As he rejoined the councils and the Princess in the dining hall, Kyle’s thoughts turned only to Stan, concerned for both of their safety, and afraid that he needed, for the first time in his life, to process his thoughts completely alone.

– – –


	4. IV. Lavender's Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Kyle and Stan feel the wearing affects of the paladin's threat, and all must become worse before getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Lavender's Blue_ was an English folk song and popular broadside in the 1600s (...and one of the reasons I chose to include elements of the 1600s in this story). The lyrics quoted in this chapter are, I believe, from a 19th century version though. (Despite this being a fantasy, I did want to make note of this particular anachronism!)

            Days went by, and not a single one was without Leopold lurking around some corner or other. It seemed that wherever Stan went, Leopold was tortuously close by, to the point that Stan began seeing patterns in the air around him. Even when Leopold was not within eyesight, Stan knew full well whenever he was within listening distance… which, regrettably, was nearly constant throughout the day, to the point that Stan began to doubt that Leopold ever slept. The paladin’s aura was erratic, and Stan realized he should expect nothing less of the man who wielded the Hammer of Storms.

            Leopold had been named _the Merciful_ by his Princess, years before, and when they were younger, Stan had understood why. Despite his chaotic weapon, Leopold would never take a life in battle; such was the station of a paladin. So why now, Stan wondered, was Leopold the Merciful issuing threats? Why was he more or less admitting collusion with the warlocks?

            But Leopold had always had a darker streak, and Stan knew better than to anger him now.

            So Stan kept his head down, as instructed. And it pained him. For days upon days, Stan was forced away from Kyle under Leopold’s vigilant eyes. Stan kept his head down, spoke to his King with the dutiful reverence expected of his station, and prayed that Leopold would not make good on his threat. Stan’s utmost priority was Kyle’s safety, and there would be no protecting him if Stan were injured or worse. There would be no telling what else Leopold might do.

            Stan kept up his act, but hated every second of it. He had no means of leaving warnings or codes for Kyle without Leopold somehow noticing; Stan felt that he could not even go to the Creek with his concerns. Not yet, anyway. Not until Stan had a better understanding of precisely _why_ the Princess and her paladin had become so menacing, so foreboding. So seemingly bent on tearing apart the Drow Elves’ forest kingdom.

            The worst of it was the reminder that Leopold would consistently say to Stan, day in and day out. And he said it again on the morning that would close a full week of Stan performing the duties of a knight and nothing more.

            Stan was stationed at the entry of the dining hall that morning, awaiting the arrival of his King and Princess Kenny. Just as he did every day, Stan tried to tell himself that this time it would be different, this time he would catch Kyle’s gaze and try to reassure him that things may yet turn out all right.

            But, just as he did every day, Leopold appeared beside Stan. “I’ve heard they’ve reached an agreement,” Leopold said.

            Stan did not honor the paladin with a glance. “Oh?” he spat out.

            “Yes,” said Leopold. “You needn’t try to stop it.”

            “Stop what?”

            “The wedding.”

            Stan’s heart shattered. He felt dizzy, but kept himself standing. Kyle hadn’t signed an agreement, had he? … _Had he?_ Then again, Stan hadn’t been able to speak to Kyle for several days, and he had been kept in the dark on negotiations. There had never been a time when Stan knew so little of the goings on in his own home.

            “It’s all as it should be,” Leopold went on.

            “You’re much too talkative for a paladin,” Stan insulted him.

            “And you still forget yourself as a knight,” Leopold bit back. “The Princess is every inch your High King’s equal, and you know this to be true.”

            “Stop,” Stan tried, but it did not come out strongly.

            “No use being jealous.”

            “I’m not,” Stan lied.

            “You’re nothing.”

            Stan froze. It was all he could do to stand up straight.

            And Leopold repeated it yet again: “You are _nothing.”_

            Stan knew that he had become much more than that, but the words stung, because they had been repeated to him so frequently as of late. It was enough to make Stan worried and cautious. Suppose he did return Kyle’s confession of love, what then? Stan had no way of knowing.

            The council would certainly not approve. They never would. While the council respected the knights for their service, they viewed all knights as less than noble, and Stan, even in his position, was no exception. Stan had worked and fought hard his entire life to prove himself in his station, and had gained the respect of the other knights whom he now led, and of the commoners and many of the other palace workers despite his beginnings in the page’s schoolhouse as an orphan and a foundling from nowhere. But no matter what he did, he truly had no lineage to speak of; nothing in his past to suggest that he had started life as anything more than a rejected child from the Midlands.

            No, he was not Kyle’s equal. But Stan still wanted to hold onto their friendship, forever and always. All he had done would seem so meaningless if he were to lose that. His options as of late, however, were horribly limited, and without anyone to talk to, it was difficult for Stan to know exactly what to do.

            He so hated being alone.

            The myriad advisors entered the dining hall first, and Stan felt his breath catch when the royals were announced. But he kept his head down, even as his King approached.

            “Good morning,” Kyle said, with the usual hope in his tone.

            Stan felt Leopold’s eyes on them both. Stan took a deep breath, kept his head down, and said with the usual remorse in his tone, “Good morning, my lord.”

            Kyle pressed on that morning. While Stan was grateful to hear Kyle’s voice, he was still terrified of what Leopold might do. “Have you been well?” Kyle asked.

            That their conversations had come to this, Stan found it unbearable. “All is well,” he lied, hoping that Kyle would read into his tone. “Thank you, sire.”

            “I mean _you,_ Stan,” Kyle said.

            Stan felt his breath quiver, and the static current of Leopold’s weapon was far too close for comfort. “Sire?” was all Stan said.

            “How _are you?”_ Kyle asked desperately.

            “Well, my lord, thank you,” Stan forced himself to say. He wanted to ask, _And you?,_ but refrained. No speaking unless spoken to. That was the knights’ code in the human kingdom, and that was what the Princess and her paladin were enforcing in Larnion now.

            “I miss you,” Kyle said in a whisper.

            Which was the only opportunity Stan had to say, “I’m here, my lord.”

            It was a phrase that would mean nothing to the paladin and the Princess, but it was a promise Stan had been making to Kyle year in and year out, that had lasted the full course of their now nearly thirteen-year friendship. Just one simple phrase: _I’m here._ It was of utmost reassurance to Kyle and Stan both at most times, and Stan’s saying it that day was the closest the two had been for a full week. The closest they were to be for some time.

            “Yes,” Kyle said, clinging to the promise with all he could. “Thank you.”

            When Kyle had joined the Princess and the council at the main table at the end of the hall, Leopold jabbed his elbow into Stan’s side and said, “There, now. Not so hard is it, doing your job?”

            “Quiet,” Stan snapped. Lowering his voice to a whisper, but not glancing at Leopold, he added, “You won’t prevail in this. Whatever it is you think you’re doing to this kingdom, you will not prevail.”

            “Oh, I’d say we already have,” said Leopold. “Watch your words, knight from nothing. Don’t forget what I can do to you. Or to him. Funny, you know, once this land has a Queen, there really won’t be a need for _two_ rulers.” Stan’s knees felt weak, and he choked on his breath. Leopold noticed. “Don’t forget that. You want to avoid tragedy, Sir knight, you keep your head down and don’t get in our way.”

            Stan drew in a deep, shaking breath. A councilman was speaking to the gathered assembly at the three long tables in the dining hall, but Stan’s head was full and spinning and spiraling. Finally, he pleaded in a whisper, “Please, do not harm my King.”

            “Stick to your station, Sir Stanley of Nothing, and it will be so,” said Leopold.

            “And thus it is decreed,” the councilman was saying when Stan managed to listen in again, “that the King shall wed the Princess in four weeks’ time.”

            Stan gasped and involuntarily picked his head up. He made brief eye contact with Kyle for the first time in a week, but upon hearing the hum of the Hammer of Storms in the back of his mind Stan quickly looked down again, hoping that neither Leopold nor the Princess had seen his momentary lapse. But in that single glance, Stan had seen enough. Kyle was looking to Stan for help, but Stan did not know what he could possibly do without Leopold making good on his threat somehow. Until Stan could shake the paladin completely… there was nothing he could do.

            “Unless,” the councilman went on, and Stan forced himself to listen over the pounding of his own heart, “a noble challenger should step forward in that time to ask for the hand of either ruler, the union shall go on as planned.”

            That must have been Kyle’s caveat; his only, desperate way out of the situation. But what could Stan do? He was not noble. The council would never accept a knight as a worthy challenger for the King’s hand.

            With the paladin shadowing his every move, the Princess’s ice-cold influence over Kyle’s council, and no new information about how exactly the warlocks were manipulating the entire scheme, Stan had few options that would not look like treason or end in involuntary desertion from the court… or utter disaster. He held his breath and prayed to the spirits for a miracle.

* * *

            When Kyle and Stan were thirteen, there was nothing greater in the world than archery games. Kyle was skilled with a longbow, while Stan favored the short for swift strikes in battle, and their talents translated onto the training field. When Kyle’s many councilors advised that holding target practice with a knight was beneath him, Kyle simply invited more people to the sessions, from throughout his own court as well as his allies to the north and south.

            Kyle nearly regretted inviting the court from the southern kingdom, for no one was a keener shot than Princess Kenny, whose family ruled over those lands. Kenny could string a bow and let three arrows fly in the span of time it took Stan, at the time, to assess his target, and her prowess held for bows of all sizes. It was well known that she carved her own bows, too, and was training her younger sister to do the same.

            On one such afternoon of practice and games, in the warmer months of the year, Kenny had unsurprisingly won four out of six rounds of shooting at targets. As she laughed with delight at her most recent victory (and the stunned expressions on the faces of both Kyle and Stan), Kyle suggested, “Let’s end this for today.”

            “I’ll only do better tomorrow,” Kenny said, re-stringing her bow.

            “Perhaps we’ll play at something else tomorrow,” Kyle challenged. “How are you with a sword?”

            “I don’t care for them.”

            Kyle laughed. “Good. Then you’ll face off against my knight,” he said, and set a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

            “I can’t train in sword-fighting in a single evening!” Kenny protested.

            “Oh, are you admitting defeat so easily?”

            “Never!”

            But of course Kenny lost the challenge. At Stan’s suggestion, they used wooden training swords, and he helped the Princess to her feet after her loss. “I should have let you win, my lady, I’m sorry,” Stan said.

            “No, that would have been quite the insult,” Kenny said, brushing grass off of her dress. She looked at Kyle, and back at Stan, smiling with her eyes. “My King,” she said to Kyle, “you have chosen very wisely in your bodyguard. If only mine were as forthright and kind.”

            “Oh, your paladin?” Kyle asked. While Stan collected the training swords, he flashed a smile to his King, who felt flushed. It was as if he’d become aware of Stan’s smile for the first time. Had Stan always looked so radiant?

            “Yes,” said Kenny, shocking Kyle back to attention. She sighed. “I care for him very much, but he can be very stupid.”

            “Give him tutors,” Kyle suggested.

            “I _do,”_ Kenny lamented. “But he’s more suited to fight than study.”

            “He is more than welcome to join us in these competitions,” Kyle offered. He laughed, then added, “Perhaps my knight’s chivalry can rub off on him.”

            “Oh, you are cruel!” the Princess said over-dramatically, before giving into a laugh herself. “In any case, he may be stupid, but he is mine. I wouldn’t trade him for a thing.”

            “I couldn’t ask for a better knight myself,” Kyle said, and looked over at Stan again, catching, once more, that radiant smile.

            “Any additional challenges for today?” Stan asked.

            Kyle said, “Unless the Princess insists on a rematch…”

            It was not Princess Kenny who responded then, but her younger sister, Princess Karen, who had been watching the match from a grassy spot in the sun nearby. Four years younger than her sister, Princess Karen was a playful and rambunctious girl with long brown hair and bright blue eyes, who admired her sister’s every move and every whim. Her hair that day was braided and pinned to the back of her head, but she was playing with loose wisps as she said, “I want to fight with a sword, too.”

            “Karen,” Princess Kenny said, setting her hands on her hips. “We agreed, bow mastery first, and _then—”_

            “Oh, please, sister, please?” Princess Karen asked. “You always get to compete against the King and his knight. Can’t I have a turn?”

            “Perhaps she could be suited to face a challenge against my ward,” Kyle offered.

            “Oh,” Princess Karen said, bouncing on her toes, “let me duel with a real knight? _Please?”_

            Kyle looked over at Stan to catch his thoughts with a glance, and, naturally, Stan smiled and gave a nod. Stan walked over to Karen with one of the training swords, and knelt in front of her, offering up the weapon. “My lady,” he said to her, “take this and train well, and when next you and your sister visit, I should be honored to accept your challenge.”

            Princess Karen’s eyes widened and she gasped, then sat up straight and took the wooden sword from Stan. Once she had it in her hands, the young Princess stood and held the training sword aloft. She then gave into a bit of delighted laughter, held the sword close to her, and looked over expectantly at her sister. “May I?” she asked. “Please, sister, I want to join the games next time.”

            Princess Kenny let out a small sigh, then walked over and placed a hand on her sister’s head. “I’ll allow it,” Kenny said. “But only on the condition that you become _much_ better than I am and can be declared the victor.”

            Princess Karen laughed and embraced her sister. She thanked Stan and Kyle both, and then the two Princesses chose to retire to their visiting quarters. Whenever they visited, the Princesses would nearly always share a room with two beds. Though Karen was significantly younger, the two may as well have been twins.

            “That was so thoughtful of you,” Kyle complimented Stan when the sisters were gone.

            “I’m glad you think so,” Stan said, securing his own sword of steel back into its place at his belt. “I wasn’t sure if Princess Kenny might think I was overstepping…”

            “Oh, nonsense,” Kyle said. “We’re all friends, here.” Kyle smiled, and took hold of Stan’s arm as the two began walking back toward the palace. “And oh, I am proud of you for defeating the Princess in the challenge of swordplay,” he said. “It’s high time she lost a challenge.”

            And in swordplay, Princess Kenny never did claim victory. Her sister became more skilled to be sure, but no one could ever best Stan at the challenge, especially when, two years after that day’s games, Stan became Larnion’s champion.

* * *

            Two weeks.

            It had been two weeks, now, and still Stan’s act continued. If it was an act. No, Kyle thought, it _had_ to be. Stan would not become so suddenly subservient without reason, and Stan still seemed reluctant to be behaving in such a manner. But he would not say why.

            Kyle’s heart ached and his mind spun, and with every passing day he grew more and more silent during his meetings with the councils. While the council members took his silence as passive acceptance to all that was to come regarding the supposed marriage, Kyle truly was lost in thought, trying desperately to work out exactly what he might say that could get through to Stan.

            Kyle and Stan had never developed much of a silent language, for they had never needed to. Even though their secret meetings were looked down upon, and both were often spoken to if found out, they had always been able to find ways to speak freely, and at the very least share passing thoughts.

            Stan had not looked Kyle in the eyes, or smiled, or called Kyle by name in several days, and it was wearing on them both.

            Furthermore, wrapped in fears for Stan and the long-term effects both the silent act and the wedding would have on Larnion as a whole, Kyle’s research into what the Princess’s intentions were, or what else she could possibly be, had waned considerably. The Princess and the paladin were winning the struggle simply by wearing them down, which bothered Kyle greatly, but his sadness and his worries were stronger than his anger and annoyance.

            Without being able to talk to Stan, Kyle simply did not know what he could do.

            He had managed to write a single clause into the terms of marriage, at least. And Kyle so hoped that perhaps Stan would break his silence and step forward as a challenger, or at the very least find someone else to step in so that the wedding would be called off and they could buy more time. But it had been a week since the declaration of the terms, now, and nothing had come of it but still more silence, still more meetings, still more fear and anguish.

            The Princess remained cold, the paladin had still not spoken a single word to Kyle, and Stan… at least Stan was there. Kyle had to be grateful for that, he told himself. At least Stan was still there. But that was not enough. Kyle tried to alter his questions to Stan, tried to get him away from the palace to speak to him in private as they always would, but nothing seemed to work. And though Stan did seem exceptionally cautious, Kyle still could not determine why.

            Kyle’s attempts were becoming desperate, but he had to take any opportunity he could find. Even around the Princess and her men. So on the night that closed the second week of Stan doing nothing more than performing his duties as a knight, Kyle tried to be even more direct.

            Following dinner, an evening of music had been planned in the throneroom, with several members of the court present, including Stan and many members of his guard. The Princess was, of course, seated at Kyle’s left, and Kyle, of course, refused to take her hand. The Princess’s paladin stood to the left of the Princess, which only sparked more worry in Kyle. Why was the paladin allowed into the council meetings? He was not a cleric; he could not perform the ceremony. Why did the council dismiss his presence and not Stan’s absence?

            Kyle’s anger came back in pieces, and he looked out to the rest of the hall.

            “Sir Stanley?” he called.

            Stan glanced over from where he stood and approached the thrones. Kyle tried to read Stan’s expression in the seconds before he bowed his head and dropped to one knee. “Yes, my lord?”

            Kyle’s heart sank. He glanced at the stone-faced Princess beside him, at the way she seemed to be memorizing every door and every crevice of his palace. He looked at Stan again and said, “Stand beside me.”

            He could see Stan take a deep breath before saying, “As you wish, my lord.”

            Stan rose, bowed to the Princess, who nodded back, then climbed the few small steps to the platform and stood at attention beside Kyle. Stan held his hands dutifully behind his back, and Kyle took a selfish second to admire Stan’s well-toned arms before his cloak billowed back into place and obscured Kyle’s view.

            “Will that be all, my lord?” Stan asked, his chin raised but quivering.

            “Would you like a chair?” Kyle offered.

            “Sire?”

            “This is an evening of entertainment after all,” Kyle reasoned. “I would like my Captain of the Guard to be comfortable, and welcome to enjoy the festivities.”

            “With my apologies, sire,” said Stan, staring straight forward at the far wall, “I would prefer to stand. I cannot effectively protect you in the case of an emergency if I were to be sitting. I mean you no disrespect. My lord.”

            Kyle wanted to cry, and looked up at Stan, silently pleading him to glance down, to catch his eyes just once. But Stan only said, “Will that be all, sire?”

            “It will, yes,” Kyle managed. “Thank you.”

            “My noble lord,” said the Princess, giving added weight to the word _noble,_ which, Kyle noticed, caused Stan to tense. Kyle reluctantly drew an uneven breath, and looked away from Stan, and over toward the calculating Princess. She held out her right hand, and her unblinking eyes were impossible to read. “You mustn’t bother so with the knights,” the Princess continued. “Leave them all to their duties. Let’s you and I enjoy this evening, and all that it portends for our soon to be united kingdoms.”

            Kyle tried to hide how obviously he shirked back at her words, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his discomfort. If Princess Kenny had once been his friend, that woman was gone. Where once she had been respectful, now she was bitter. Where once she had been eager to learn of the different customs between their kingdoms, now she imposed her own strict regulations. Kyle gave the Princess a glare, folded his hands in his lap, and turned his head to stare straight forward, trying desperately both not to cry and to formulate some sort of plan to get Stan to say something to him… anything at all about what had happened over the past two weeks that was causing him to turn away and withdraw.

            Remembering that he was in the presence of his court, Kyle steadied his breath and straightened his back, forcing himself to put on an air of calm for the masses. He tried to study the faces of those present who were not part of the council… to read into any concern or doubt from others in and around the palace.

            Everything had felt so strained as of late that Kyle had not thought about what his supposed engagement to the increasingly cold Princess looked like to the people of Larnion. How it reflected on his own character. He did not wish to be seemingly tied to someone who opposed every detail about the way Kyle wanted to rule.

            And there was indeed some concern among the crowd that evening. Kyle took notice, but made himself smile as to assure all present that things would be all right.

            Out of habit, Kyle glanced up at Stan, to ask with his eyes what Stan thought of the situation, but Stan’s gaze was still fixed forward, and he reacted to nothing. As the evening wore on, Kyle continuously tried to catch Stan for even a second, for any kind of connection, but Stan only stayed at his post until dismissed.

            Kyle had never felt so alone.

– – –

            Far into the evening, Kyle slipped away from his chambers and asked various members of the guard where he might find Stan. He had to talk. He had to say _something._ Kyle needed to find out what was wrong, before it was too late.

            One of the door guards suggested that Kyle try the stables, and Kyle felt his heart speed up as he hurried down the familiar path to their favored meeting spot. This had to be a sign, Kyle thought. Stan wouldn’t be there this late for usual duties alone. Stan had to talk; he just had to. And call Kyle by name again, and assure him that everything was going to be fine in the end, that they would see this obstacle through together.

            Heart pounding, Kyle stepped into the stables, where he found Stan carefully cleaning and polishing a saddle that was mounted near the center of the floor. Kyle watched Stan go about his task for a moment, but then was instantly hit with fear when Stan did not turn to greet him.

            “Here you are,” Kyle said, still letting relief flow through his tone. “Stan, I’ve been aching to talk to you. What is going on? What happened back there?”

            And to his dismay, Stan’s response was to ask, “What do you mean, sire?”

            Tears stung Kyle’s eyes, but he forced them back as he stepped further into the stables. “Stan,” he insisted, “we’re alone, you don’t have to do this.”

            Stan simply continued going about his task. “I’m only finishing my duties for the evening, sire,” he said.

            “I don’t mean _this!”_ Kyle erupted. “Stan, _please,_ talk to me! What is going on? What is _happening?_ Why won’t you look at me? Why did you refuse me?”

            Stan angrily scrubbed at the saddle he was cleaning and said without lifting his eyes, “When, my lord?”

            “Back there!” Kyle said, pointing in the direction of the palace, though Stan did not lift his head. “Tonight. The performance. I offered you a place beside me and you refused it. Why?”

            “It’s better for a knight to stand,” said Stan.

            Kyle’s back tensed. “You’re my friend, Stan,” he said desperately. “Look at me.”

            “I can’t do that, sire.”

            “Why not?!”

            Stan threw down the rag he was using to clean the saddle and turned to walk quickly into the nearest stall, where he took up an abandoned brush and began combing back the coat of the horse that stood inside. Kyle followed, uncertainty and terror guiding every step. “I offer you my hand,” Kyle said. “I offer you a seat at my side. I offer you my friendship and you speak to me with your head bowed. Why have I lost you, all of a sudden? Stan… my Stan, what have they done to you?”

            “Nothing has been done to me, my lord, I just—“

            “Just _what?”_

“We are not _equals!”_ Stan burst. “And I can never hope for us to be!” He stopped his work for a moment, then gathered himself and resumed. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, my lord, but you know it’s true.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “I swore to protect you,” Stan said, still going about his work, his eyes only on his own unsteady hand. “I cannot uphold my sworn duty if I am dismissed or exiled or killed, so I must be cautious. There are eyes and ears everywhere. I do not wish to lose my place, sire, so I must act to the code of my position.”

            Kyle’s eyes burned with tears. “Stop it,” he snapped.

            “My lord, please.”

            _“Kyle,”_ Kyle insisted.

            “I cannot speak or act out of place, my lord, I’m sorry,” Stan said with difficulty. He finished his task and turned to walk to the back of the stable, where the supplies were kept. Kyle followed after.

            “Why are you doing this?” Kyle demanded. “We’re alone. Stan, it’s one thing if we can’t be together, but if I am to lose you as my _friend—”_

            “My lord, please, don’t make this any harder than it is,” Stan begged. He put away the brush and turned his back on his King. “I can’t bear to lose you.”

            “Then look at me,” Kyle challenged.

            “Sire, I can’t.”

            “So… what? The Princess storms in here and because you’re human you obey her laws over mine? Look at me!”

            “You know that’s not it.”

            “Look at me, Stan, _please.”_

            “Sire—”

            Kyle’s lower lip trembled, and he clenched his hands into fists. Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “I _command_ you to look at me!”

            He regretted the words instantly, but he could not take them back.

            He heard Stan choke, saw his broad shoulders sag, saw him cover his mouth with one hand. Stan then drew in a shaking breath, turned, and looked at Kyle as his dearest friend for only an instant with those dusk blue eyes before he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and clasped his hands behind his back. He pressed his lips flat together and raised his chin, to keep his voice from wavering. He then drew in a deep breath, and looked upon his King as no more than the Captain of the Guard, and he said, “Will that be all, my lord?”

            Kyle’s breath stalled, and he felt as if his heart would burst. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, and he dropped to his knees, covered his face in his hands, and let out a long, anguished cry. He heard the rattle of light armor as Stan lowered himself to the ground as well, and with one last swell of hope, Kyle lifted his head.

            Only to find that his knight knealt before him, head bowed.

            “You wound me,” Kyle sobbed. “What are you doing? Stand up. Or comfort me. Hold me. Why won’t you hold me?”

            “I cannot stand,” Stan said. “Not when my King is on the ground. I cannot hold you, sire, for that would wound me, in turn.”

            Kyle’s entire body trembled. He folded his hands upon his lap, bowed his head, and let himself cry.

* * *

            When Kyle was fifteen, the tutor he found the most difficult was his dancing instructor.

            She was a kind enough woman, who had known his mother and father well, but she flustered easily and dancing was not Kyle’s strongest suit. She pointed out his mistakes such that it made him self-conscious, and Kyle never did get the hang of the steps she taught him for a proper court dance until the day he asked Stan to accompany him for moral support.

            Stan had obliged without question, and stood to the side of the room at attention, trying not to react as Kyle fumbled with his steps as he mirrored his instructor. The only ones in the ballroom that afternoon were Kyle, Stan, the instructor, and the palace bard, who constantly had to start and stop a tune on his lute whenever Kyle would misstep.

            “It’s hopeless,” Kyle remarked after another failed attempt.

            “Nonsense,” said his dancing instructor. “The dance floor is no place to be stubborn, my lord. Let’s try again.”

            “I wish to choose a different partner,” Kyle said.

            “Very _well,”_ said his instructor, clearly fed up with the young King’s disobedience thus far. “Select a lady and—”

            “Why leave the room in search of a lady?” Kyle asked. “I’ll dance with my knight, who is already here. Our heights are more evenly matched.”

            From where he stood, Stan picked his head up and stared, quite longingly, at Kyle for several seconds, mouth slightly agape.

            “Well?” Kyle asked, extending one hand.

            “This is unseemly,” Kyle’s instructor tried.

            “Then it’s a good thing nobody but us is around to see it,” Kyle argued.

            “Fine,” the instructor gave up. “Fine. But a knight is a poor choice of a partner if you ask me.”

            “I didn’t,” Kyle said. He smiled again at Stan, who now smiled back. And to his knight, Kyle asked, “May I have this dance?”

            Stan set his sword and helm to the side, and joined Kyle in the middle of the floor, taking his outstretched hand. Keeping eye contact, Stan lowered himself onto one knee, then gently turned Kyle’s hand over in his to kiss the back of it. Voicing his answer, Stan said, “It would be an honor, my lord.”

            Stan stood again, and at the instructor’s barking allowed Kyle to position himself on the right, to lead the steps. It had already been a part of Stan’s training to learn the basic court dances, for the sake of royal functions, and he did not mind adjusting to either part. Because Kyle would lead, and because he was the King, Stan bowed low to accept the offer to dance. Kyle’s face flushed, but he bowed in return, as thanks. For everything.

            Kyle nervously straightened, positioned his feet with his right slightly in front of his left, and held up his right arm. Stan, standing scarcely a foot away, lifted his right arm as well; when he held his left behind his back, it prompted Kyle to do the same. Their palms faced each other, but did not touch.

            “And watch your feet,” the instructor was mumbling as she walked to the corner to stand beside the bard.

            “Do not look at your feet,” Stan whispered to Kyle, leaning in. “That will complicate things for you. Look only at me.”

            Kyle did not want to look anywhere else.

            The bard began to strum his lute in a moderate three-quarter time, and Kyle’s breath caught as he began leading the steps. The first movements were to circle one another, stepping lightly to the count of the music, then to step out, and back in, and repeat the motions with their left hands raised, meeting without touching between them.

            Stan mouthed the word, _relax,_ which made Kyle smile and allowed him to momentarily abandon his nerves. The instructor was saying something, about how Kyle’s shoulders were too stiff and his feet were too flat, but Kyle did not listen. But he listened when Stan whispered, under the instructor’s constant words, “The music, Kyle. The music is there to guide you. Feel how it moves you. It ebbs and flows like the tide. Just listen.”

            Stan was musical himself, which assured Kyle even further. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and drowned out his instructor.

            He hadn’t even noticed that the bard was singing.

            _“Call up your men, dilly, dilly, set them to work_

_“Some to the plough, dilly, dilly, some to the fork_

_“Some to make hay, dilly, dilly, some to cut corn_

_“While you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm…”_

            Kyle opened his eyes again and, as instructed, looked only at Stan. He had never moved more gracefully in a dance lesson in his life. When he began the steps again, leading from the right, he dared to let his wrist touch Stan’s, and then to let their fingertips meet… just lightly enough that his instructor would never know. Stan smiled warmly, and Kyle wished more than anything to kiss him.

            _“Lavender’s green, dilly, dilly, lavender’s blue_

_“If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you_

_“Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, and the lambs play_

_“We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm’s way…”_

            And for months upon months afterward, Kyle and Stan could often be found playfully dancing with one another, calling it practice or calling it a lark, always in tune to Stan’s humming or singing of the little song. Kyle loved it. He was a critic of most music, but he loved that song. It mentioned the colors of his and Stan’s eyes. Together, along with everlasting love. It was only a simple tune, but it was every wish of Kyle’s in a few lilting meters.

* * *

            In the terrible quiet of the stables, Kyle’s shoulders heaved, but no sound escaped as he cried. When his breath had thinned enough for him to speak, the only words that spilled from his lips were those of a song. With difficulty, barely able to keep a steady breath, Kyle sang quietly:

            _“Lavender’s green, dilly, dilly, lavender’s blue_

_“If you love me… I—I will love you…”_

            He covered his face again, unable to continue. And he cried until he had no tears left, sitting in agony in front of the man he loved, unable to reach for him.

– – –


	5. V. The Fugitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan learns a powerful secret, seeks help from the Creek after making a difficult decision, and meets two unlikely new allies.

            Kyle left the stables that night alone, refusing Stan’s offer of an escort and seeming utterly drained of all hope. When he was sure that Kyle was gone, Stan collapsed forward onto the ground, bending over both knees and holding his head in his hands, practically face down in the hay-covered floor.

            Stan took several shaking breaths that became shallower and shallower with every inhalation until he thought he would scream. He managed to keep all sound inside, but his eyes burned as he cried, releasing every ounce of emotion he’d been holding back in Kyle’s presence. Stan’s hands ached to hold Kyle and yes, his heart threatened to burst with every beat, but Stan had no way of telling Kyle what was wrong. He was convinced that Leopold could see and hear everything, and he knew that the paladin had been watching Stan’s every step as of late. And, indeed, Leopold’s threatening aura had not dissipated from the air once that evening.

            For the first time in twelve years, Stan felt lonely and afraid, just as he had as a child in the marshes on the edge of the forest.

            He choked out a sob and covered his mouth to keep from making any more noise, and continued crying for another minute, unsure of what to do. Stan did not know how much longer he could keep up the awful charade. It had been too long already. He could not do this for another month, let alone the rest of his life.

            He needed a plan, and soon.

            The Princess’s arrival had threatened the fabric of Kyle’s kingdom, but with nothing other than strong suspicions, Stan had nothing to back up his and Kyle’s accusation that the Princess had been behaving strangely. That her paladin may as well have been oozing dark magic from his pores. Stan and Kyle had known Kenny and Leopold in their childhood… the council probably was not as aware of the auras they used to exude, compared to how off-kilter they seemed to be now. But the council would require written words, or items, or an outside witness to wrongdoing. And Stan had nothing.

            Stan heavily picked himself up and brushed himself off, dreading the future and missing Kyle terribly. Stan could still see his King every day, at least he had that, but he missed Kyle’s companionship and his encouraging words. He missed the reassuring touch of Kyle’s hands. He missed Kyle’s happiness.

            Stan drew in a deep breath, and brushed off his last remaining tears. That was all the resolve he needed. Stan would do anything to see Kyle’s smile again. He needed to get to work. Somehow or other, he would uncover exactly what the Princess and her paladin were plotting, and he would present his findings to the council. A part of Stan had always been somewhat terrified of Kyle’s many advisors, but they were hardly a threat compared to Leopold’s cutting words and the warning hum of his hammer.

            And just as Stan was leaving the stables, there Leopold appeared out of the night. Stan stared the paladin down, saying nothing. If Leopold had heard Stan’s conversation with Kyle, if he had heard the King cry, Leopold was sure to hold it over Stan’s head. So Stan held firm.

            “Awfully late for rounds among the horses, isn’t it?” said Leopold.

            “I heard a disturbance and came to investigate,” Stan lied.

            “Indeed,” said the paladin. The two regarded one another for a moment, and then, once again, Leopold broke first. “The Princess wants a word with you.”

            Stan walked past Leopold, up the stone path toward the palace. “I will oblige her highness’s request in the morning,” Stan said.

            Leopold scoffed and followed, his footsteps falling heavy behind Stan. Stan suppressed a shudder, knowing Leopold’s eyes were on him, and his hammer could be set to strike at any moment. “No,” said Leopold, “I think it would be wise for you to see my lady now.”

            Stan bit down and tried not to clench his fists in rage. All he wanted to do was sleep and let that terrible day be over. “Lead on, then,” he managed.

            “I’ll instruct you from here,” Leopold said.

            Stan drew a deep breath, but did not argue. There was no telling what exactly the Princess could be summoning him for, but Stan could not be too cautious. This could even be a chance to learn more about her motivations.

* * *

            A few weeks after Kyle’s ninth birthday, when the former King and Queen were still alive and the likeliness of war against the western kingdom was still only whispered about, Kyle brought Stan along on one of his parents’ diplomatic visits to the southern kingdom. It was the first time Stan had been to the kingdom mostly inhabited by humans, and he asked Kyle over and over on the journey, while the two rode together with one of the elder knights and Kyle’s magic tutor in a covered carriage, whether he should speak Elven or Human when they arrived at their destination.

            “Human is preferred, I think,” Kyle said, “but the courts of the north and south are like ours. Both are spoken pretty freely.”

            “I’m just afraid that I might be forgetting some of the human language,” Stan admitted, “now that I’m fluent in Elven.”

            “It’s all right,” Kyle assured him. “You’ll have plenty of practice with both, especially once you advance further, I’m sure.” Stan had very recently been elevated to the rank of squire, which was rare for a nine-year-old, but not altogether without precedence. His eagerness to learn and advance had certainly come to Stan’s advantage in motivation, and it showed in his studies.

            “Besides,” Kyle said, “the older Princess here is mostly fluent in Elven, as well, I think. I’m not sure about the younger one.”

            “Are they friends of yours?” Stan asked.

            “Not really,” said Kyle. “I’ve met them, but I don’t necessarily think that makes us friends.”

            “Oh,” Stan said. He knew that Kyle was very particular about who to call a friend, and took this to mind when they arrived at the southern castle.

            While the elven palace blended into the forest around it, the humans’ castle was quite conspicuos—a large stone structure with multiple turrets and situated on sprawling lands surrounded on all sides by tall wooden gates. Stan glanced out of the carriage to catch a glimpse of the knights of the southern kingdom, all dressed rather similarly to the knights of Larnion but clad in slightly more armor, and brazenly bearing the royal family’s coat of arms on their tunics or shields.

            The coat of arms, displayed proudly throughout the castle’s surroundings, showed a ship’s wheel, for the royal family’s pride in their seaside ports, curled around which was a long green dragon. Stan gasped and sat back, looking at Kyle with wide eyes. “Do dragons nest here?” he asked.

            “I’m not sure,” Kyle said. “I think they live mostly to the west and north, but it’s possible there are still some here.”

            “We haven’t any in Larnion, have we?”

            “Oh, no, no,” Kyle said. “All the dragons left Larnion ages ago, as they much prefer the mountains. So I suppose we might see one!”

            Stan grinned, and looked out at the castle grounds again, delighted to have had the opportunity to accompany Kyle on the trip, and to learn so much more about the realms of Zaron, and how Larnion operated in its role among the four kingdoms.

            Kyle kept Stan close to his side when the two rejoined Kyle’s parents and a few advisors at the castle doors; they were escorted inside and brought immediately to a ceremonial hall, where flags of all colors were being hung from the rafters. A flag bearing the coat of arms for Larnion’s royal family had been mounted as well, to welcome them in—the coat of arms bore a twisting tree, the same type from which the King’s crown had been carved, over a simple crimson background with four ancient sigils embellished on it in gold.

            They were greeted then by the King and Queen of the realm, and after a brief and customary ceremonial welcome to the court of Larnion, the human rulers’ daughters were announced, and the sisters took their place at their parents’ side. It was the first time Stan had seen Princess Kenny, and his first impression of her was that while she seemed poised in the presence of company, there was something mischievous about her.

            “The Princess is quite lovely, isn’t she?” one advisor could be heard saying to another, behind where Stan and Kyle stood.

            “Oh, yes, yes,” the other agreed. “Such a charming girl.”

            “Ugh,” Kyle said to Stan under his breath; Stan tried not to laugh.

            But Princess Kenny was indeed a very charming girl, and on that day her full smile could be seen, making her expression all the brighter. For it would be months yet before the Princess joined the allied kingdoms’ forces in battle against the warlocks; months yet before she would be scarred by the flames of war.

            The Princess beamed at her own court and her visitors, then held out her hands to beckon her younger sister closer. Princess Karen was barely five on that day, but already was clinging close to her sister, as she would for years to come.

            The children were then sent away to explore on their own, while the rulers of the two kingdoms spoke of matters of trades and customs. After some brief introductions, Princess Kenny brought Kyle and Stan along with her to one of the castle’s majestic libraries, which was lined on either side with rows of desks. Many of the desks were occupied by men and women, and a few children, in clerics’ robes, copying down texts from a variety of books. Stan was awestruck. He’d never thought much about how books were put together. In Larnion, they always just seemed to appear.

            “I’ve been reading,” Princess Kenny was saying as she showed Kyle and Stan around, “all about the forests of Larnion, ever since my father said that you were going to visit. Are there really spirits that weave magic into the trees?”

            “Oh, yes,” Kyle said. “The trees, and everywhere. All throughout Zaron, really. Don’t you use magic here?”

            Princess Kenny sighed. “Not really,” she said. “Some of us are prone to gifts of sorcery, but it’s _so_ much work. That’s why I try to learn all I can. Someday, when I’m Queen, I’ll see to it that enchantments and whatnot aren’t so looked down upon.”

            “Are they?” Kyle asked, looking uncomfortable.

            Princess Kenny shrugged. “A bit,” she said.

            “A bit,” Princess Karen echoed.

            “Unless one is given direct blessings from the gods,” Kenny explained, “magic isn’t really the sort of thing just anyone can pick up and practice here. Isn’t that right?” she asked of a boy their own age who was passing by with three books piled in his arms.

            The boy stopped, and nodded at his Princess, then took a look at Kyle and tried awkwardly to bow without dropping the books.

            “And who is this?” Kyle asked.

            “This?” said Kenny. “This is Leopold. Leopold, may I introduce Kyle, Prince of Larnion, and… I’m sorry, Stanley, was it?” Kenny asked Stan. “Who exactly are you? You look like a squire.”

            “I am, my lady,” Stan said.

            “Is he your… what, attendant?” Kenny asked Kyle.

            “He’s my best friend,” Kyle said, placing a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

            “Oh, I see. All right,” said Kenny, not questioning a thing. “I suppose Leopold is one of my best friends, too. He’s been helping me with calligraphy. He’s the son of one of our court clerics, but tomorrow he’s to be affirmed as a paladin.”

            “Paladin?” Stan wondered, and then flushed. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said to the Princess, “but I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure what one is.”

            “The court of Larnion,” Kyle explained to the Princess, “does not employ paladins, you see.”

            “Ah, yes,” said Kenny. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? How different two kingdoms can be? I find it fascinating. But yes, a paladin. He’ll be denouncing his position as a cleric tomorrow in order to accept a warrior’s righteous purpose from the gods.”

            “Why?” Stan asked Leopold. Leopold didn’t answer, but he looked to the Princess.

            “Those seeking to become paladins,” Kenny explained, “must take a vow of silence on the last day of their former lives. I’m sure he will be more than pleased to discuss things with you in better detail tomorrow. Yes?” she checked with Leopold, who smiled and nodded. “You see, it’s as I said,” Kenny continued. “Magic in this realm must be _bestowed._ And tomorrow, gods willing, the forces of nature will allow Leopold to harness some power as a paladin.”

            And so it was that, the following day, Kyle and his parents received the rare opportunity to watch the paladins’ affirmation ceremony. At Kyle’s request, Stan was allowed to watch as well, making him one of only a handful of non-nobles in the room.

            The ceremony took place in a quiet cloister that was symbolically situated between the clerics’ library and the knights’ quarters in the castle. There was an open circular window in the roof that beamed sunlight in over a modest platform, upon which was situated a stone table bearing an array of weapons. Kenny and Karen stood beside their parents as the King and Queen alternated calling out the names of the dozen children and adolescents lined up that day hoping to become paladins. Half were dressed in clerics’ robes, half in squires’ uniforms.

            Four successfully chose weapons that activated at their touch, with beams of light or bursts of flame or quick jolts of wind, and four were denied by the time Leopold’s name was called. The boy stepped forward, projecting nerves but showing reverence for his rulers. He bowed to the King and Queen, and then to the Princesses, before approaching the table.

            “Choose wisely,” the King said.

            Stan was sitting at the edge of his seat. He felt a bit of a kindred spiritship in Leopold in that moment. Stan knew the exhilaration of being affirmed on his chosen path in life, and he wanted the same for the young cleric, even though he’d known him less than a day and had not had a conversation with him yet. But Stan understood the need and the passion that went into a life of service to the crown, and he only ever hoped for the best for anyone else who shared that need.

            Leopold hesitated at the table, looking at each and every weapon carefully. Then, at last, he reached forward and picked up a steel hammer. He’d taken it up in one hand, but immediately had to steady its weight in both. And once both hands were on the hilt, the sun disappeared from the sky overhead as storm clouds rolled over the window. There were a few gasps in the room that were then silenced by a clap of thunder as the hammer in Leopold’s hands sparked with small bursts of lightning.

            Leopold’s eyes widened, and he drew the hammer close to his chest, before the lightning could strike anyone. And with that, the clouds parted, and sunlight again filled the room.

            “Incredible,” said the Queen, Kenny’s mother. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

            “There hasn’t been a storm-wielding paladin in this kingdom for ages,” the King added.

            Leopold looked up. “Your majesty,” he said in a small voice, “does that mean that I—?”

            But it was Princess Kenny who answered, “Oh, yes. You are, truly, a paladin of this realm.”

            Two of the three others were named paladins after Leopold, but it had been Leopold’s hammer alone that had granted its user the power of storms. After the ceremony, Princess Kenny paraded her favorite paladin around to friends of hers who had been in attendance, and then finally reintroduced him to Kyle and Stan.

            “The first in _ages!”_ Kenny gloated for her paladin, echoing her father’s words. “What made you choose the hammer, Leopold?”

            “Well… I could hear it,” Leopold answered. “The way you can hear a storm coming.”

            “And now you are that very storm,” the Princess complimented him.

            And as they grew, and the four of them met again and again, it was clear indeed that no one but Leopold could have wielded that hammer, for he was, as his Princess had said, a storm himself. He was softspoken until it was time to strike, and his hammer’s power was the natural chaos of a lightning storm on the battlefield. He was like a stormcloud, quiet and dark, but never so much that he would not allow the chaos to pass. But above all, Leopold would say, again and again, that at the core he was only human, and as such, his strongest loyalty was to his Princess, no matter the odds.

* * *

            Leopold led Stan into the throneroom, which already sent a chill through Stan. What did the Princess think she was doing, calling him there? _Being_ there, without Kyle? That was not a room for unsupervised visitors, betrothed or no. She was still not Larnion royalty; this was not her place.

            Adding insult to injury, the Princess was seated in Kyle’s throne, on the elevated platform at the back of the hall. The candelabras near the platform were fully lit, as were a few torches throughout the hall, but it was still far too dark, with the flickering lights casting ominous shadows over and around the Princess.

            “Ah,” she said as the two approached. “Sir Stanley.”

            “Your highness,” Stan said in return. Leopold slipped away from Stan’s peripheral vision, but he was certainly not gone from the room. “You sent for me?”

            “Indeed I did,” said the Princess. She drummed her fingers against the arms of Kyle’s throne, and sat up straighter to really set her unblinking stare upon Stan. “Tell me, knight,” said the Princess. “What is your duty to this kingdom?”

            “I am Captain of the Guard, my lady,” Stan answered, desperately wanting to add, _You know this. You were present for my affirmation._ “I lead and train the knights of Larnion, and protect this palace and my King with my life.”

            “I see,” said the Princess. She stood, and stepped off of the platform, taking a few steps closer to Stan. “You are also Larnion’s champion, are you not?”

            “I am, my lady.”

            “You are better than the rest, I grant you that,” said the Princess, “and yet you still seem to let this get to your head.”

            Stan tried to hide his shudder. “I must admit I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” he said.

            “Hmm,” was all the Princess said. She stopped in front of him. In her heeled shoes, she and Stan were the same height, and her cold eyes were fixed directly on his. Stan blinked and let out a quiet but grateful breath when she turned and began to pace.

            “When I am your Queen,” she said, circling him, “what will you do for me?”

            “I will serve you with honor, my lady,” Stan answered, keeping his eyes forward.

            The Princess stopped behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Stan shuddered, as if he had been touched by a corpse. “I am cold,” the Princess said herself. And then, with malice: “Take me to bed. Warm me.”

            “I—I could not bring such shame to you, my lady,” Stan managed to say. How, he wondered, could no one in the court realize that the Princess had been so drastically changed in only the course of two years? How could no councilor recognize her lies?

            “What shame?” hissed the Princess. “I’m fond of you.”

            “I’m afraid I cannot love you, my lady,” Stan said, knowing full well he could be sealing his fate. “Forgive me.”

            “Oh?” She removed her frigid hands from Stan’s shoulders. “Why not?”

            _She knows._ Leopold’s warning pounded in his head, but Stan continued.

            “My heart belongs to another,” said Stan, bowing his head.

            The Princess walked around to his front, grabbed his chin in one hand and forced his head up. Her eyes were ice. “Does it, now?” she asked.

            “Yes, my lady,” Stan said, holding his ground. “There is someone I love.”

            “Indeed. Where is it, then?”

            “Where is what, my lady?”

            “Your favour.” Stan fought to center his breath as the Princess spoke, still with such darkness in her tone. “All knights carry favours of their fair ones. Where is yours? I see no pendant, no scarf, no ring.”

            Stan’s knees weakened, but he stood firm. “I need no favour,” he said. “I have my love’s trust and honor, and that is all I need.”

            The Princess’s unblinking eyes bore into him, and she took a step back. “Then tell me,” she said. “Your love. Man? Woman? Both? Neither?”

            Stan was trapped, and knew he had to answer. “A man, my lady,” he said.

            “I see. And do I know this man?”

            Stan’s right hand ached to grab his sword, but he could not proceed to rise against her without tangible proof of her deceit. “Yes, my lady.”

            “Does he reside in this kingdom?”

            “He does, my lady.”

            “Does he _rule_ this kingdom?”

            Stan’s eyes burned. Bracing himself, he said, “Yes, my lady.”

            The Princess struck him across the face. Stan’s cheek stung, but he did not fight back. He kept his footing, and slowly resumed his position, head bowed.

            “You forget yourself,” the Princess snarled. “You dare call your fealty love.”

            “I dare call my love what it is, my lady,” Stan retaliated.

            The Princess struck him again. Stan felt tears threaten in his eyes again, but he refused to let them show.

            “Get out of here,” the Princess ordered. “Get out of my kingdom.”

            Stan lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. “It is not yet your kingdom to command,” he said.

            “Get out!”

            He was banished no matter what happened next, so Stan took his only chance and said in a commanding tone to rival the Princess’s, “The real Princess Kenny has a burn scar on her right jaw. I have seen it in my childhood. Show it to me. Prove your honor.”

            “I will do no such thing,” the Princess snapped. “Asking a noblewoman to remove a garment. How _dare_ you. Get out of my sight. Never show your face here again.”

            “Not until I know without question that you are who you claim to be.”

            The Princess’s eyes somehow seemed even colder. “You have no idea how terrible a battle it is you could be starting,” she warned.

            “Then I’m certain I have no idea who you are,” Stan said, “and therefore no reason to obey your orders any longer.”

            With that, he reached forward and ripped off her carefully wrapped scarf. She was indeed beautiful, with lips painted crimson, but she bore no scar in the place Stan himself had seen once, years before. He gasped and stepped back, dropping the scarf to free his hands.

            “Now _look_ at what you’ve done,” snapped the Princess. But she had further exposed her falsehood, for on the word _look,_ her tongue passed her teeth, revealing it to be forked, like that of a serpent.

            “Demon!” Stan shouted, drawing his sword at last.

            The false Princess rushed aside and took up a standing candelabra to block Stan’s first strike. Wax dripped from the candles and onto the floor.

            “Where is she?” Stan demanded. “Where is the real Princess?”

            “You prying cur,” snarled the false one. “You’ll never find her.”

            “Does the paladin know? I won’t hesitate in striking you down and revealing your truth to the entire court.”

            “That paladin is securely under my control.”

            Stan took up his sword and struck again. The false Princess blocked his blade with the candelabra and rushed back, gripping her weapon. “And no one will believe you,” she tried. “No one else is as unbearably stubborn as you.”

            “Unbearably stubborn?” Stan repeated. He lunged again. The false Princess blocked, and he parried, thrusting his blade toward her again.

            The false Princess blocked his strike once more and snapped, “Yes, stubborn! Stubborn and far too clever! A knight is not meant to be clever; a knight is meant to _follow orders.”_ She struck out with her makeshift weapon. Stan dodged, and his blade met her candelabra for three strikes more. “How dare you think yourself above your position,” she seethed.

            “How dare you,” Stan countered, “underestimate me?”

            He cut into her side, but the strike did nothing but rip her dress. Her skin was hard as diamonds. “What are you?” he asked in alarm.

            The false Princess grinned. “You poor excuse for a knight,” she seethed. “Too busy coddling your precious King to ever fight a dragon.”

            Stan’s heart skipped, and the dragon wearing the Princess’s visage struck out with the flaming end of her candelabra. Stan rushed back and out of the way. His sword was useless against her. What could destroy a dragon?

            “The Princess is far from here,” she continued. “Far, far to the West, and she will be killed once this kingdom belongs to me.”

            “And Princess Karen?” Stan insisted.

            The false Princess only laughed, and lunged.

            Stan countered her every strike, then finally found an opening to strike at her again, even knowing that he could not cut her. He needed a plan, and quickly—and then, just like that, one was presented to him.

            To counter his sword on his next strike, the Princess raised up the candelabra… and the melting candle-wax dripped down onto her left arm. She stopped suddenly and dropped her makeshift weapon. She rushed back a few paces after letting out a cry, and though with the fall all of the candles had been blown out, the wax on her arm still burned, and in the dim light of the room, Stan saw that the burning wax had eaten away at her silk sleeve, and now smoldered against her skin.

            The woman—the dragon—quickly held her right hand over the burning spot to snuff out the flame, but Stan had seen enough. She could not be cut, but she could burn.

            Before Stan could make a run for one of the torches, the false Princess called out, “Leopold!”

            And thunder filled the room. The paladin walked forward from the far shadows of the throneroom, then broke into a run and struck out at Stan with his heavy hammer.

            “Stop!” Stan tried, blocking the strike with the side of his sword. “That isn’t your Princess! Why are you following her? Can’t you see that she’s a dragon?”

            “Accusations will get you nowhere,” Leopold said flatly.

            Stan kicked Leopold in the gut and readied his sword. Both Leopold and the Princess had once, and so recently, been friends and allies of Stan’s and of Kyle’s. Stan hated the paladin for what he had been doing and saying as of late, but Stan refused to kill him, not without evidence that the paladin, too, was not who he appeared to be “Accusations?” Stan repeated. “She’s admitted it herself. Your real Princess is in danger. We can help you.”

            Leopold only raised his hammer to strike again, but Stan struck out first.

            “What did I say, knight?” the paladin snarled, pushing back against Stan’s force, leaning his face far too close for Stan’s comfort. “Keep your head down.”

            “You’d do best to look around once in a while,” Stan snapped back. He squared his footing and shoved the paladin off, then struck down again with his sword.

            He grazed Leopold’s shoulder with the side of his blade, just enough to cause blood to flow, but doing so only awoke the chaos in the paladin’s weapon. Leopold’s eyes narrowed, and he took two steps back, and held out his hammer, pointing it in Stan’s direction. Lightning burst forth from the weapon, striking out in three directions. Stan knew enough about the terror of Leopold’s weapon to duck out of the way before the lightning could reach him, but he felt the heat of the sparks, and the prickle through the air that signaled an oncoming storm.

            Stan could not outrun lightning for long. He glanced at the door, then back at the dragon and her paladin. Two things he knew were true: one, if he remained in that room and fought, he would more than likely be killed, struck by the unpredictable path of the lightning; and two, the false Princess needed the marriage plot to go through in order to fulfill whatever the rest of her scheme may have been. Therefore, she needed Kyle to stay alive.

            The wedding was in three weeks, and the council’s strict rule following affirmed that the date would not move.

            Stan had three weeks. Three weeks to prove the Princess’s falsehood to the stubborn and quite possibly glamoured councils; to save his King and his kingdom.

            To protect the person he loved, Stan needed to flee.

            “What now, knight from nothing?” Leopold challenged.

            The Princess smiled a malevolent, draconian smile, and said, “If you want your King to live beyond his wedding day, you will leave this place and never return.”

            Stan did not grace them with a vocal answer. He looked only at the burning flesh on the false Princess’s left arm, which Leopold seemed to be conveniently ignoring. When the time came, she would burn, and the real Princess would be found.

            His mind made up, Stan took up his sword, stood, and left without bowing, taking purposeful strides toward the front hall.

            But from behind him, he heard the false Princess order her paladin, “Give chase. If you are able, kill him.”

            Stan cursed under his breath and broke into a run. He turned a corner just as a bolt of lightning shot down the hall after him.

            Few members of the guard were on patrol that evening, but Stan was sure that at least one saw him leave. Stan hoped, then, desperately, that the knight could pass word to Kyle; that someone in the palace would know that the Chaos Paladin had driven Stan out.

            Another bolt of lightning shot out the doors after Stan, and he managed to dodge by rolling to the ground before quickly getting back on his feet and breaking into a sprint until he’d cleared the gates. Footsteps and the erratic aura of the paladin still followed him, so Stan made for the area he knew best, where he could hopefully lose the paladin and buy himself some time to make his next plan.

            Using his Sight to the best of his ability, Stan sprinted into and through the thickest part of the forest. He heard no footsteps behind him once he’d strayed from the path, but he could not take chances. Several yards in, Stan dashed behind a mistletoe bush and crouched down, catching his breath. No footsteps, no hum of the paladin’s hammer. That did not assure safety, however. Desperate, Stan drew in a deep breath and sounded out a hushed call of three rapid whistles. He paused a moment, then sounded the call again.

            Then he was up and running again, heading east.

            From somewhere near the creek by the border, three rapid whistles answered him.

            Stan kept to the shadows and the thick brush, but followed the sound when it came again, closer now. He continued running until the earth gave way beneath him. He hadn’t been watching his step.

            But no—the earth had not split open… he’d been hauled upward. A net closed around him and Stan was hoisted up, several feet off the ground and into a thick canopy of leaves belonging to a large, ancient tree. Stan craned his neck, then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the young man standing on the large, long branch in front of him.

            Feldspar was dressed in earthy browns, carried small blades and potions in his belt, and was wrapped in a deep blue cloak. His black hair was unkempt from his forays through the trees and underbrush, his brown eyes always alert, and he wore a bandit’s mask around his nose and mouth, obscuring his identity.

            “Tell me you saw the trap,” was the first thing he said to Stan.

            “I confess that I didn’t,” Stan said, leaning against the net he was caught in. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”

            “Damn. I thought I taught you better than that.”

            “Will you release me?”

            “Don’t get caught like this again,” Feldspar warned, drawing a dagger from his belt and striding easily across the tree branch toward Stan. “Hurry or no, the Creek arms this forest for a reason. Watch for my signals.”

            “Yes,” Stan said, out of breath. “I will. But this isn’t a usual circumstance.”

            “It had better not be. I’d be worried.”

            “Just cut me down.”

            Feldspar clucked his tongue, but did as Stan requested and cut through the rope with a quick slice of his dagger. Stan dropped to the branch and instantly looked down, but the canopy of leaves obscured the view to the ground—which, fortunately, meant that he could not be seen by Sightless human eyes either.

            “What now?” Feldspar asked, gathering up his net. “We’ve moved our watch as you requested, and nothing’s come from the west.”

            “Oh, but something has,” Stan said. “We may not be on the brink of battle yet, but we have inadvertently invited something formidable into Larnion.”

            “When?”

            But they were answered by the paladin’s voice calling out into the trees: “Where are you, knight? Come out and face me!”

            “Ah,” said Feldspar, hushing his tone. “What can we do?”

            “We?” Stan asked, hope beating into his heart for the first time in days. “You’re both here?”

            “Always,” said another voice. Stan turned, grateful to have another ally that night.

            Standing against the trunk of the tree, all but completely concealed in the evening’s shadows, was Feldspar’s partner. Thresher, as he chose to be called, was short and swift on his feet; silent and sinister with a bow. The other half of the Creek painted himself in camouflage made from the earth, and his light brown eyes could be mistaken, from a distance, for those of a wild animal protecting his terrain. Only his shock of blonde hair made him stand out, and remind adversaries and allies alike that he was only human, and not some forest spirit made manifest.

            “I can lure him away,” Thresher offered.

            “I can’t ask that of you,” Stan said. “That hammer of his is an absolute terror. No one can outwit lightning.”

            “I can.”

            “Thresher, I appreciate the gesture, but—“

            Thresher’s eyes narrowed in the dark. “I can,” he insisted again.

            Stan nodded. When one was allied with the Creek, the best payment was trust. Stan had known them both since childhood, and if anyone were to survive the present chaos from the Princess’s paladin, it was Thresher, who knew the forest like his own mind and breath.

            “And you, Sir?” Feldspar asked Stan.

            Stan steadied himself. He took one last look back at the palace, willed a prayer to the spirits for Kyle’s strength and safety, then glanced back at Feldspar. “I need to be hidden,” Stan requested. “I need to go somewhere that I will not be sought after or found, where I can continue my investigations into the corruption that has entered our home.”

            Feldspar showed a slight grin. “I know just the place,” he said.

            Feldspar and Thresher nodded to one another, and then Thresher was off, more quiet than a breeze until he purposefully landed in a thud on the ground. Thunder shook the forest, and Leopold roared, “Show yourself!” Thresher’s response was to run, and Leopold again gave chase.

            Only when Stan could no longer feel the paladin’s erratic presence did he signal to Feldspar, who raised up his bandit’s mask again, grabbed Stan by the arm, and turned him to run across the old, sturdy branches of the tree until they jumped to another.

            They kept to the treetops for a while, until Feldspar finally brought Stan to the ground, deeper into the thick of the forest, and led him further away and into the darkness.

            As they stole away, Stan recounted his evening to Feldspar, giving emphasis to the visual proof he had for the Princess’s lies. Feldspar listened, and when Stan came to the end, Feldspar said, “All right. You’re a knight, aren’t you? Go back in there and slay the dragon.”

            “It’s not as easy as that,” Stan said. “I can’t simply slay a dragon, who, by the way, is guarded by living lightning, without uncovering how the dragon came to take the Princess’s place to begin with. Besides, once I slay her, then what? The real Princess still needs to be found and restored to her home.”

            “Shouldn’t you want her gone?” asked Feldspar. “Aren’t you in love with the King?”

            Stan flushed. He cleared his throat and said, “That’s neither here nor there. Besides, I have profound enough reason to believe that the true Princess Kenny would never force an unwilling partner into marriage. The real Princess has integrity, and is truly noble. Even… even if she did marry Kyle, I wouldn’t mind serving her, not the true one.”

            Feldspar let out a snort of breath. “Right. Which is precisely why you refer to his highness by name.”

            “Just hide me,” Stan said through clenched teeth, his cheeks and ears red.

            Feldspar may have laughed, but Stan pressed on.

            Stan had crossed the southern border quite frequently, for cross-cultural holidays between the humans and elves and remembrance celebrations for the great battles of their nations’ past. He had not, however, lingered in the unclaimed lands that lay off the cleared and well-marked paths. That was free and dangerous territory, ruled by bandits far less kind than the Creek. Stan kept one hand on his sword’s hilt, his eyes trained forward and his ears alert.

            Feldspar moved swiftly through paths of his own, and Stan followed, noticing irregular notches in certain trees as they went. After several minutes of navigating the looming dark, Feldspar pulled Stan down behind a thick row of bushes, then parted the leaves to indicate the clearing that lay beyond.

            In the clearing stood a fairly large tavern of wood and stone, with a sturdy, crossed foundation and an open stable beside. Despite the presence of a few horses—and one deer—there were no marked roads leading to or away from the building or the stalls. No sign hung overhead, but there was a carved word in ancient Elven over the tavern’s front door, which translated roughly to: _WAYFARERS._ Very few lights burned inside.

            _“This?”_ Stan hissed at his guide. “This is the best you could come up with? This place looks incredibly suspect.”  
            “So do I,” Feldspar pointed out. “Listen. They can hide you. Nobody gets inside who hasn’t come by the Creek. Tell them that’s how you arrived, and you’ll have a room and provisions as long as you need. Pay them extra, and they’ll fight off anyone who tries to ask questions. Ask for Wendy. She runs the place. Don’t let on that you know this, even to her, but she’s a Valkyrie.”

            Stan’s eyes widened. “A _what?”_ he exclaimed in a whisper. “What’s a Valkyrie doing operating a public house?”

            “Recruiting,” said Feldspar. “Again: no word to her, but you can trust Wendy with your life. And look for Clyde, if you need hired help.”

            “Clyde?” Stan said, feeling a sour taste in his mouth. “No. You don’t mean—”

            “The man who was possessed by the Demon King ten years ago, yes, that Clyde,” said Feldspar.

            “I’m not doing this.”

            “Well, then, get offed by the Princess, who, from what I hear, is the one under current possession. Or… whatever.”

            Stan glared at Feldspar, and knew that his options were limited. “Clyde is free of corruption?” he asked.

            “Very much so. He’s not the kind of person who’ll stand for or fall for anything like that again, either. He’s a ranger, he can get you a horse if you need one and he can fight off assailants. Trust him if you trust me. If you give my name to anyone, give it to him.”

            Stan sighed. “What’s this going to cost me?”

            “Good point. Probably more than what you’re carrying.”

            “I have plenty of gold on me.”

            “Still, doesn’t hurt.” Feldspar produced a small pouch from the back of his belt, then thought for a beat and drew forth a second, handing them both over to Stan. “That’ll cover you up front. You’ll pay me back,” he said.

            “That depends. How’d you obtain this?”

            “Odd jobs.”

            Stan glared at the pouches, then at Feldspar, and chose not to question the legality of the gold he was being handed as he tucked the pouches away. “All your jobs are odd,” he muttered.

            “Go inside,” said Feldspar. “I’ll wait out here for an hour, but I doubt you’ll need even five minutes to be accommodated.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said, setting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll be in your debt for this.”

            “You’ll pay me back that gold and you’ll stop falling for easy traps in the forest.”

            Stan grinned. “I can promise that.” He started to go, then thought again and said, “Feldspar?”

            “Yes?”

            “Please, if you or Thresher come by any new information, or if you hear of any plots against the King, anything at all that might be an immediate threat to Kyle’s life, I need you to find me. I need you to keep me informed. I will not simply hide here and bide my time. I’ll be readying myself to fight.”

            “I thought you might say that,” said Feldspar. “Watch for our signals, Stan. Good luck.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said again. “And Feldspar?”

            “Yes?”

            “I understand that your preferred method of communication is in secrets. I respect that. But please,” Stan asked, “however you are able, tell the King that I am safe, and that I am deeply sorry that I needed to leave, but it was for his own protection. And tell him… tell him to stoke his fire. He must not let it burn out.”

            Feldspar nodded his understanding.

            Satisfied as he could be, Stan stood, and when he turned to look back, Feldspar had disappeared without a sound. Stan looked forward at the tavern, readied himself, and walked inside.

            A few heads turned, but Stan went mostly disregarded. He removed his helm and tucked it under one arm, already aware of how boldly he stood out among the others in the tavern. The door had opened up into a large, comfortable establishment with several tables lining the walls, and one long table in the center of the room. Many of the seats were taken by men, women, and others who ascribed to no single gender, all dressed down in dark, earthy colors. Some wore armor. Some were elves, but most were humans. Most bore scars or other signs of battle. Stan’s uniform, that of a knight of the royal elven court, was by far the cleanest and most expensive clothing worn by anyone in the tavern.

            A fire roared in a large pit on the far left-hand wall, where an older elven woman sat tuning a lute. Above the fire-pit was affixed a stag’s head with golden antlers. At the back of the large room, a hall really, was a long bar, and behind it a kitchen in which a single chef was turning meat over a small flame. And directly behind the bar stood a tall woman whose eyes were instantly on Stan.

            Wendy.

            Stan managed to mask his reverence, but only barely. There was no mistaking Wendy for anything but a Valkyrie. The Valkyrie were warriors of both truth and legend, powerful women from Midland territories who swore fealty to no one but themselves. They were all known to be tall, strong, and commanding, with piercing, beautiful eyes.

            Wendy proved to be slightly taller than Stan, with pale skin and long, sleek black hair that was tied back just enough to stay out of her face. Her eyelids were painted grey, and she wore a green dress that Stan thought was much too common for her. Then again, Wendy had to hide her own identity somehow. Straying from the armor of the Valkyrie was the easiest way for her to do that.

            “Yes?” was the only thing she said to him when he approached, her voice calm but commanding.

            “Are you Wendy?” Stan asked, to be sure.

            “I am,” she answered, eyeing him cautiously.

            “I need a room,” Stan said. He set down one of Feldspar’s pouches of gold, and added, “I come by way of the Creek.”

            Wendy glanced down at the pouch, then directly into Stan’s eyes. He felt as if his soul were being judged. If that had been the case, he seemed to pass, for Wendy pocketed the gold and took a ring of keys off of the wall behind her. “How many nights?”

            “Fewer than three weeks, I should hope.”

            “Very well.” Wendy sifted through the keys before she selected one and beckoned Stan to follow her.

            He walked behind the Valkyrie through a doorway situated in the right-hand wall of the tavern, and turned a corner to a modest flight of stairs. Wendy led him to the second level and down a hall without a word. Torches burned along the hallway, and no noise came from within any of the rooms. All activity seemed to be, for the evening, in the main hall.

            Wendy stopped in front of a doorway, checked to make sure Stan was behind her, and fitted the key to the lock.

            “The chef cooks meals at dawn and dusk,” Wendy said. “You are permitted one steed for the stables, but do not let anyone follow you here. Keep to the wayward paths if you choose to come and go.”

            “Understood,” Stan agreed.

            “I would advise you not to tell your name to anyone but me,” Wendy added. “Most come by way of the Creek here, but we have the odd bandit who manages to sneak in. I can keep names safe for travelers like you. Does yours need protecting?”

            “It does.”

            “Then tell me,” said Wendy. “It will make you harder to find.”

            Stan paused, then dared to ask, “Do you keep the names of the Creek?”

            Wendy did not flinch. “I do,” she said. “I have, for many years.”

            “Then I trust you with mine,” Stan said.

            Wendy nodded, and said, “Inform me when you no longer need it hidden.”

            “I will. It’s Stanley. My name is Stanley.”

            “A strong name,” Wendy said, which was quite the compliment from a Valkyrie. “It is safe with me. You cannot be found, as long as you stay here.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said. “Really, I—”

            “No more than thanks is necessary,” said Wendy. “Is there anything else you need?”

            Stan thought a moment. “Clothing, perhaps,” he said. “And a razor.”

            “Simple enough. Consider it done,” Wendy said, as she swung open the door.

            The room was small, but it would do. Anything would do better than the forest, where lightning could strike again at any time, where Stan would be too easily found. A bed—a cot, really—was pushed against the far wall, under a sliver of a window with two iron bars to keep wanderers out. Beside the bed sat a small, narrow table with a tin washing basin and a cloth, while a low chair was propped in the corner for tying shoes.

            Stan thanked Wendy again as she handed him the key, then shut the door and sat at the foot of the bed. He removed his helm and set it aside, then held his head in his hands. When he closed his eyes, the entire scene played out again in the dark: the Princess’s cold-handed strike, the dragon, the paladin and his fearsome hammer. Stan had been right to run; he knew this. Hopefully the Creek would get word to Kyle. Hopefully Kyle would understand.

            “Be safe,” Stan wished Kyle in a whisper. “Be well. I’ll return soon, and I will endeavor to explain everything.”

– – –

            Stan waited a while, catching his breath, but simply could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the evening came back to him, and his heart began pounding. Stan stared out at the dark room, then rose and began pacing, thinking through what he could possibly do now, what his best course of action was to expose the false Princess before it was too late. To save Kyle. To do whatever Stan could to speak as usual to Kyle again. To tell him everything, face to face, and ensure a future wherein that evening’s events would seem like nothing more than a nightmare.

            Feldspar’s words came back to Stan: _Look for Clyde._ Stan most certainly wanted nothing to do with Clyde, not the former vessel of the Demon King, but Feldspar had been right about Wendy’s hospitality, not to mention her station as a Valkyrie, so he must also have been right about the man who was now a ranger. Stan did need help; all he could get. He did not know the Midlands, nor the southern kingdom beyond the usual paths. He needed a guide. And if that guide had been a former adversary, Stan decided, then so be it.

            Stan left and locked his room and returned to the main hall, where a great many lodgers were still awake and gathered in their own spaces. Wendy stood behind the long bar, exchanging a few words with a blonde woman in the clothing of a hunter. When Stan approached, Wendy lifted her head and moved to where he stood.

            “You’ve missed the evening meal,” she said, “but the kegs are open.”

            “I’m not hungry,” Stan said, realizing it was true. “I need your help.”

            “What with?”

            “I’m looking for a ranger,” Stan said, leaning across the bar.

            “Any in particular?” asked Wendy.

            Stan set a gold piece down on the bar, and waited until Wendy was looking at it to say, “Clyde.”

            Wendy lifted her eyes to meet Stan’s, then pocketed the gold piece, took up two tankards, and ticked her head toward the back of the tavern. As Wendy tapped a keg to fill both tankards with ale, Stan slowly shifted his gaze to the shadowy corner the tavern-keeper had indicated. Sitting alone at the farthest table was a man in a wide-brimmed hat, silently surveying the room from behind an almost finished pint. Wendy set the tankards in front of Stan, who nodded his thanks to her before he turned to go.

            Ale in hand, Stan sat across the table from the ranger Wendy had indicated. He slid one tankard across the table, and caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he leaned forward to take up the drink. Two long scars crossed his face, practically splitting it horizontally in two beneath the eyes. Stan knew that the man was young, roughly Stan’s own age, but the man’s eyes were tired and hollow, and a few days’ stubble covered his jaw, making him appear much older. He accepted the drink without question, threw back a swig, and said, “You’ve got ten minutes.”

            “That drink’s compliments of the Creek,” Stan said. He took out his remaining pouch of gold from Feldspar and set it down next to his own tankard of ale. “This gold’s from me if you give me more than ten minutes.”

            The scarred man looked at the pouch, took another drink, and studied Stan for a moment. “Nice clothes. You a knight?” he asked.

            “I am.”

            The man scoffed. “How does a knight have business with the Creek? Who are you?”

            “I’m your latest source of income,” Stan said, causing the man to grin.

            “All right, knight,” the man said. “You need a ranger, you’ve got one. What’s the job?”

            “For now, protection,” Stan said. “I’ll give you further details and instructions when I need to.”

            “Done. I like your style, knight,” said the man. He reached his right hand across the table, palm out, revealing to Stan multiple burn marks and a bandage wrapped around most of his palm. Echoes of the battle from ten years prior, when he had been nothing but a boy corrupted by a power he could never hope to understand. “I’m Clyde. What do I call you?”

            Stan thought for a moment, then shook Clyde’s hand, surprised by the ranger’s firm grip despite his scars. “Just call me Marsh for the time being,” Stan decided. Simple enough for the Creek and for Kyle to recognize, but to throw the paladin, who paid little attention to such detail.

            “A Marsh by way of the Creek, huh?” Clyde said, sitting back. Stan slid the pouch of gold over to him, and Clyde caught it with another grin. “I think this’ll be a fine job.”

– – –


	6. VI. Out of Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kyle receives news from the Creek, and Stan recalls his early days of training with Feldspar while preparing to embark on his quest.

            When Kyle woke, there was a terrible pressure on his chest. He stared upward at the lofty ceiling of his bedchamber, fearing for a moment that he might have fallen ill as he had once before in his childhood. But this feeling of unease was new, and terrible. It had been building bit by bit since the Princess’s arrival and now it was stacked on top of Kyle like a mountain… no, a volcano, which had finally erupted.

            Short of breath, Kyle roused himself and dressed hastily, trying to gather his thoughts and focus on the source of this chilling dread. He glanced out the window to his left, half expecting stormclouds but finding none. The sun shone on another day, oblivious as the rest of the kingdom to the lurking terrors of recent events.

            Kyle’s eyes felt dry from having cried out seemingly all of his tears the night before. Perhaps that was it, he thought. The utter, unbearable torture of Stan refusing now to call Kyle by name when they were alone, of Stan’s new commitment to acting like any other one of the knights of the court. Kyle knew it was not Stan’s choice and far from Stan’s fault. Kyle suspected the paladin, but the hurt was far worse than the symptom. He should not have accused Stan, Kyle thought. He should not have pressured him.

            Today would surely be yet another day of being called _lord_ and _sire_ and this and that, with friendship just out of reach. But Kyle would have to bear it. Even if Stan would not look at him, Kyle would need to be happy, at least for now, that Stan at least was there. And Kyle would have to pretend he did not mind.

            The thought of it opened a pit in Kyle’s stomach that was much different from the pressure he felt surrounding him. Fear shook his spine and he left his chambers quickly.

            Guards and attendants greeted Kyle as he walked with quick strides to the grand dining hall, and Kyle more or less acknowledged them, but he kept his eyes forward. He felt angry without knowing entirely why. Angry, and remorseful, and lost. Perhaps even just seeing Stan might help, Kyle thought. Just seeing him, and apologizing when Kyle had the chance. That would do. For now, that would do.

            But Stan was nowhere to be seen, not attending the main hall, nor on rounds, nor at the doors of the dining hall. Kyle’s mouth felt dry and the world seemed to spin. Kyle turned away from the dining hall and instead walked the opposite route of what he knew was Stan’s usual morning round. Stan should be seeing to his guards at this time of day, assuring that all was as it should be.

            All was most certainly not as it should be. And worse and worse with every step.

            Panicked, Kyle quickened his pace and made for the knights’ quarters. Only the highest ranking knights dwelled in the palace, in the long chambers near the rear gates, and Stan had occupied the most coveted of the knights’ rooms for the last five years. Kyle had visited many times, before their friendship had to move outside of the palace to keep his council from shouting about status and nobility and all such wretched things.

            One of Stan’s senior knights stood guard at the front end of the hall, and she gasped upon seeing the King approach. “Sire,” she said in alarm, “what are you doing back here?”

            “Where is Sir Stanley?” Kyle asked the knight.

            “Should he not be on his rounds, my lord?” she asked.

            “I may have missed him,” Kyle said. “Did you see him leave this morning?”

            The knight turned pale. “I confess I did not, your highness,” she said. “I have held this post for the past six hours. Perhaps he— _sire!”_ she tried, when Kyle pushed past her, determined.

            “Send out the guard,” Kyle ordered the knight. “Find him.”

            “Y-yes, sire,” the knight obliged.

            Kyle moved onward until he stood in front of the door to Stan’s chambers. He caught his breath, then raised his right hand to knock, softly at first, and then louder and more desperately. There was no answer. Kyle tried the door but it was latched. Panic surrounded Kyle like a moldy blanket, and he raced down the hall until he found another knight with a ring of keys and ordered him to open Stan’s door.

            “My lord,” asked the knight, “is everything all right?”

            “I won’t know until you open this door,” Kyle said.

            “Is Sir Stanley all right, my lord?”

            “I _don’t know._ Open the door!”

            “Of course, sire.”

            The knight obliged, and no sooner had the latch clicked than Kyle forced open the door and rushed inside. Only to find that again, Stan was nowhere. The pressure became worse and worse, and Kyle felt as though the world was closing in around him, like a thicket of thorns, poised to cut him at the slightest wrong motion.

            Kyle stumbled out of Stan’s rooms, ordered the knight to lock the door again and guard it with his life, then made once again for the dining hall, where he knew he would find the only people with answers.

            A guard who was not Stan opened the door to the dining hall, and Kyle entered in a fury. The long table at the back was empty but for Princess Kenny, sitting in the center, two of her attendants on either side, and her miserable, wretched paladin standing dutifully behind her. Before Kyle could stop himself, he stormed forward and demanded of the Princess, “Where is he?”

            “Good morning, my King,” the Princess answered.

            That did not calm the flame that was beginning to rise in Kyle. “Where _is he?”_ Kyle demanded again without breaking stride.

            “Whatever do you mean?” asked the Princess.

            “Where is _Stan?”_ Kyle shouted.

            “Performing his duties as a knight should, I assume,” said the Princess.

            “Stop lying to me!” Kyle snapped. He stormed up to the Princess and slammed his hands down on the table in front of her. _“Where is he?”_

            “Your highness,” one of the Princess’s attendants said. “You don’t look well. Perhaps you should rest, or have something to drink.”

            “Don’t speak to me,” Kyle warned the attendant. He glowered at the Princess. “You have done nothing but try to tear my life and my kingdom apart since the day you sent me that letter,” he accused her. “Why? What are you trying to do? What are you trying to prove? Why is your paladin here and not your sister? _Where is my knight?!”_

            “You have plenty of knights,” the Princess said chillingly. She had not moved since Kyle had arrived in the room. “What’s one gone missing?”

            Kyle’s heart sank. “Are you _saying_ he’s missing?”

            The Princess stared at Kyle with her unblinking eyes. “It’s possible that he stepped out of line, my King,” she said. “It’s possible that he chose to abandon his kingdom. One never knows. He’s a Midland nothing, after all.”

            _“SHUT UP,”_ Kyle hollered, and slammed his right fist down on the table again. He was unable to control his flame, and the linen tablecloth singed where his hand struck it. Kyle measured out his breaths, keeping himself under control as best he could, but tears once again threatened in his eyes. He refused to let them fall in front of the Princess. He refused to show her any sign of what she or her paladin might deem as weakness.

            “I agree,” said the Princess slowly, keeping her calm, still glaring at Kyle. “You do not look well. Rest, won’t you? I’ll ask the cooks to send up some food.”

            “Oh, spare me,” Kyle said bitterly. He stared right back at the Princess, and said, “I refuse to marry you. I want you out of my kingdom.”

            “But my King, the parchment is being drafted as we speak,” said the Princess, each and every syllable calculated. “You will not refuse, when the time comes.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means you will not refuse. Do you hate me so much?”

            “You have no idea,” Kyle said. “You are not who I remember you to be. You cut me with your demands of my own court. You destroy me with your impositions on my best and strongest warrior. You kill me by refusing to answer one simple question.”

            “Do I?”

            _“Where is he?”_ Kyle asked once more.

            The Princess said nothing. The pressure was too much to bear.

            “You will not unravel me,” Kyle said to the Princess with resolve, and then he turned and left the dining hall. He did not stop walking, and told himself he would not until he caught sight of Stan.

            Kyle strode out the front doors of his palace, only slightly noticing the panicked faces of the knights on guard. He picked up his pace until finally he was running down the path to the stables. He rushed inside and called out Stan’s name, but was met with silence. Kyle screamed wordlessly into the stables, spooking the horses, then turned and continued to run. He did not know where he was going until the answer came to him.

            “The Creek,” he said to himself as he ran. “The Creek… to the Creek, to the Creek…”

            He broke into a sprint and nearly tripped over his robe. Kyle cursed under his breath and tossed his robe off, continuing his breakneck pace in his tunic and trousers. When Kyle reached the bank of the western creek, he collapsed onto the ground and bent over himself, catching his breath. He choked out a single sob, but forced himself to breathe first. He was burning up. He had to calm his breath, and his fire, and his anger, and his desperation.

            If he was going to find Stan, he had to be thinking clearly. Only the Creek could help with that.

            And then, as if he had been wished there, Feldspar’s voice came from overhead: “What brings you here, your highness?”

            Kyle sat back onto his knees with a start, then reached forward and grabbed Feldspar by the legs. “Feldspar,” he said, already beginning a plea. “You know the truth. Don’t you?”

            “Which, of many, sire?” asked Feldspar.

            “Sit with me. Talk to me. No one will talk to me. No one will listen to me.”

            Feldspar obliged and knelt in front of Kyle, who drew back his hands and held them, shaking, in his own lap. “Your champion listens and speaks, your highness,” Feldspar said.

            “Yes, and where has he gone?” Kyle asked, still catching his breath. “I know that you must know. The Creek sees all in this kingdom, and I am eternally grateful for it. Please tell me. I don’t want to make that an order, Feldspar, you are my friend. Please.”

            Feldspar was silent for a moment, his eyes shifting slowly left and then right. He closed his eyes to open his ears, then looked at Kyle again and said, “He is safe.”

            Kyle cried out abruptly, and clutched his chest, finally blinking out a few tears. “He’s safe?” he repeated on a whisper. “Stan is safe? Where is he?”

            “I cannot tell you at the moment, your highness,” Feldspar said. “But he has not and will not come to harm. I promise.”

            “Why has he left?” Kyle asked. “Was it the Princess? The paladin? What caused him to disappear so suddenly?”

            “I need to watch my words,” said Feldspar, “if I am to protect your lands. But I can tell you that your fears are not unfounded, sire. You must be cautious. Belief is your greatest ally for the time being.”

            Kyle nodded, understanding. Feldspar began to rise and leave, but Kyle stopped him, asking, “When will Stan return?”

            “That I do not know, your highness,” Feldspar said. “My hope is that it won’t be long.”

            Kyle covered his mouth with one hand, closed his eyes, and nodded again. Stan was alive, and he was safe from harm. Stan knew something, of that Kyle was sure, and both his act of obedience and his disappearance were out of loyalty and his promise to protect Kyle and his kingdom.

            Feldspar sighed, and set a hand on his King’s shoulder. “Your knight will return to you,” he promised. “If my advice means anything, sire, I ask you to have faith and be brave for the both of you.”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, wiping the wet corners of his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Thank you, Feldspar. I will. I will.”

            “And sire?”

            “Yes?”

            Feldspar lowered his voice and said, “I do have a message for you from your knight. Keep your fire burning. Stoke your flame.”

            Kyle felt his breathing stall, and he clenched his hands together on his lap to keep them from shaking. Stan must have known something terribly important, and communicating through the Creek was his best means of not leaving a trail to wherever he had gone.

            Kyle cast an unsure glance back in the direction of his palace, then narrowed his gaze. No matter what was going on, no matter what the Princess’s plan was, or how aggravating his council was acting about the whole thing, Kyle’s duty was to his palace, and to his people. His duty was to his forest, and the legacy of the Drow Elves.

            He would not be unraveled, and his fire would not be doused.

            He would have faith that Stan would return, and prepare himself for whatever hard truths might come of the Princess’s continued stay in his lands. But Kyle would not bend, and he would not let his kingdom fall into ill-plotting hands. Even if Stan was not around for the time being, Kyle had his tactics. He knew how to stall his council. He knew when he was being lied to, and the Princess and her paladin had only been speaking half-truths at best since their arrival.

            Kyle turned back to the rogue and said, “Thank you, Feldspar.” He repeated Stan’s words in his head: _Keep your fire burning._ “I will.”

* * *

            When he was eight years old, Stan had grown so accustomed to seeing Kyle every day, uninterrupted, for a year, that it alarmed him when one morning the young Prince was nowhere to be found.

            Stan had roused early in the morning, as he was growing accustomed to, and snatched up a small book he had hidden under his pillow. He had taken the book from the pages’ schoolroom in order to study as much and as often as he could, and he could not wait to tell Kyle how much his Elven was improving. After a year, Stan could read and write in Human, but he was much more concerned with knowing proper Elven—from common accentuations and slang to formal and even noble verbs and secret words. He spoke with Kyle in a fluent mix of both, but he so wanted to be able to read and write in the elves’ language, too, and he wanted his best friend to be proud.

            He took to the outdoor hallways, hugging the book to his chest as he wandered from the barracks to the rear of the palace. Stan slunk through the older knights’ quarters, looking up at the great wooden doors, heart full of hope that he might one day reside here with the best of the guard. He was still small, so he passed through unnoticed, even as many guardsmen began to go about their day.

            Stan walked past the kitchens and into the main halls, bright and alive with the colors of autumn, and as soon as he knew his voice could carry, he called out, “Kyle!”

            He walked and walked, calling for his friend around many different corners, until the only way to go was up. Stan had never climbed the grand staircase without Kyle leading the way or holding his hand, so he swallowed back his nerves, set one foot on the first step, and then ran up, hugging his book to his chest.

            Stan did not know which way to go, so he turned right, calling out again, “Kyle, where are you? It’s my rest day! Kyle?”

            He had only passed by four doors before a figure appeared in the hall in front of him. Stan gasped and looked for a place to hide, but as the figure approached, he was able to breathe a little easier. It was Kyle’s mother, the Queen, her red hair in braids piled high on her head, her robes a rich crimson.

            Stan bowed his head and hid his book behind his back as he said, “Good morning, your majesty.”

            “Stanley,” said the Queen, sounding tired. “What are you doing up here?”

            “I… I wanted to play with Kyle,” Stan said, keeping his head bowed.

            “Oh. Oh, Stanley, I’m sorry,” said the Queen. “My son can’t play today. He needs to rest.”

            “Rest?” Stan lifted his head, concerned. “Is Kyle okay? Is he sick? I can… um…” He held his book out in front of him. “I can read to him. Would that help him feel better? I can read Elven now! Even the really old stuff!”

            “That’s very kind of you,” the Queen said. “But I’m afraid you’ll just have to see him another time.”

            Stan’s heart sank, and he hugged the book close again. “Oh,” he said. “Okay. Will you tell him that I wanted to see him, please? Your majesty? And… and I hope he feels better, if he’s sick.”

            “I will,” the Queen promised. “Run along, now.”

            Stan hesitated for another moment, then bowed to the Queen and walked away. He walked carefully down the grand staircase, through the main hall, and out one of the doors just to the side of the formal entrance. He wandered out to the courtyard garden, sat on a stone bench, and opened his book. He could only read for a minute before he became bored, and sad, and afraid.

            Stan had not known much of fear or loneliness since Kyle had found him. Living near the palace, and being with Kyle, Stan had never had to worry, not once in over a year. He was already forgetting where he had come from… quite purposefully. The people in his memories had sent him away, and had not come looking for him. He did not want to remember them. Not when he had a brand new life. Not when he had Kyle.

            But that day, Stan was alone, and he had very few friends from the schoolroom. Many of the young elven pages were jealous of Stan for his friendship with the Prince, and shunned him. Others shunned him for being the only human in the barracks. Stan did not care about that normally, but he did today.

            Not knowing what to do, Stan left the garden with his book, and wandered toward the forest. He kicked at a few leaves underfoot, and opened up his book to read a bit while he walked. Not looking where he was going, Stan ran into something that rattled and scraped his knees when he walked into it.

            He gasped and stumbled back, then tucked his book into the back of his belt and knelt down to look at the thing he’d hit. It was a trap, and a well made one, too, out of sturdy sticks and strips of metal, bound together with strong twine. Inside the trap was a rabbit.

            Hardly giving it a second thought, Stan searched for the door of the trap and lifted it up. “Go!” he said to the rabbit, which sat inside the trap chewing leaves. “Get out of there. Stop eating your dinner or you’ll _be_ dinner.”

            When the rabbit did not move, Stan reached in and took it out, carried it over to a bush, and set the rabbit down. “There,” Stan proclaimed. “Live another day.”

            _“Hey!”_ a young voice snapped from behind him.

            Stan gasped, picked a stick up off the ground, and spun around, holding out the stick as he did his wooden training sword, ready to defend himself. Standing by the rabbit trap, having somehow appeared without a sound, was a boy Stan’s age, wrapped in a dark blue cloak. Nothing could be seen of the boy’s face but his brown eyes, which were narrowed and glaring at Stan.

            “I was gonna eat that,” the boy said.

            “Eat something else,” Stan said.

            “No,” said the other. “I was _going_ to make rabbit soup. I can’t make rabbit soup without a _rabbit._ You owe me a rabbit.”

            “I don’t,” Stan argued. “Who are you? Catch something else.”

            The boy stormed forward, looking ready to fight with Stan the same way some of the other pages tried to pick fights, but he stopped, and pulled down the bandit’s mask that covered the lower half of his face. “You’re human,” he said, poking at Stan’s left ear.

            “Stop it,” Stan said, slapping the boy’s hand down.

            “Me, too,” the boy said, lowering his cloak’s hood to reveal his own rounded ears and mess of black hair. “Don’t poke me with your stick. Why are you dressed like that? Where’d you come from?”

            Stan kept his stick held up. “I’m a page,” he said, ready to defend himself still. “I came from the barracks up the hill.”

            “They don’t have human pages.”

            “Yes, they do. I am one. I’m… I think I’m the only one.”

            The boy in the cloak grinned, then stood back and held out his right hand. “I call myself Feldspar,” he said. “Everyone calls me Feldspar.”

            “Is that your name?” Stan asked.

            “No. It’s just what everyone calls me.”

            “Okay.” Stan moved his stick into his left hand, and shook Feldspar’s outstretched hand with his right. “Everyone calls me Stanley, because that’s my name. Except my best friend, he calls me Stan.”

            “Who’s your best friend?”

            “The Prince.”

            Feldspar laughed. “I like you,” he said. “You’re different.”

            “A lot of people don’t like me because I’m different,” Stan said.

            “So what?” said Feldspar. “Different is better. I’m different.”

            “How so?”

            “I can use magic,” Feldspar boasted. “And I have the Sight.”

            Stan lit up, and dropped his stick. “That’s amazing,” he said in awe. “Will… will you teach me?” he asked. He grabbed out his book and held it forward. “Can you read? I can teach you how to read if you can teach me how to use the Sight! Kyle will be so excited!”

            “Read?” Feldspar said skeptically. “Why should I learn to read? Is that Human or Elven?”

            “You don’t know the difference?” Stan asked. Feldspar shook his head. “Well… there’s all kinds of things you can do if you can read. You can read signposts and proclamations. And warnings. It’s good to know.”

            “Hmm. And why do you want the Sight?”

            Stan looked down at his book, then at Feldspar, then up at the trees. He had wanted to learn the ways of the forest since the day Kyle had explained what the Sight was to him. Yes, part of him wanted to learn simply so that he could share something else in common with his best friend, but the idea intrigued him even beyond that. “I ran away,” Stan said, which was true in a way. “I ran away from my mother’s home and the forest saved me. The forest, and Kyle. Kyle told me all about the Sight, about the threads that connect everything.” Stan looked at Feldspar with determination. “If I’m going to grow up to be a good knight,” he said, “I need to know how to navigate the entire kingdom, not just the obvious. I need to see it if I am to protect it.”

            Feldspar folded his arms. He regarded Stan, and then Stan’s book. After a moment of contemplation, the young rogue decided, “All right. Meet me right here tomorrow at dawn, when it’s just barely light. That’s the best time to learn. Bring your word things.”

            “Book,” Stan said.

            “That,” said Feldspar.

            “How will I know it’s the right tree?”

            Feldspar pointed to the tree and said, “Lesson one.”

            “What?”

            _“There,”_ Felspar said, gesturing harder. “Don’t just look at the tree. Notice it.”

            Stan squinted at the tree, concentrating to find what it was Feldspar was pointing toward. After a labored half minute, he found it: a negligible notch carved into the side of the trunk, just a little higher than Feldspar’s arms could reach, in a slight curve. Stan smiled when he noticed it, and he wondered if he had passed by other trees with similar notches before.

            “That means,” Felspar explained, “that this tree lets me place traps in it. The closer to the creek I go, the more I mark my path. But you’ll learn that tomorrow.”

            Stan thanked him, and then in the blink of an eye, Feldspar was gone.

            Bursting with excitement for his new lessons, and possible new friend, Stan clutched his book and ran back to the barracks as fast as his feet could carry him. He sought out his tutors and asked to be placed on duties for the rest of the day, in exchange for resting hours the following morning. The knights obliged, and Stan was sent to the stables, where he dutifully copied squires’ actions in cleaning the floors and tack.

            That evening, after Stan had finished his duties in the stables, a messenger from the palace came to fetch him. Stan cleaned up and was taken into the palace, up the grand staircase, and into Kyle’s bedchambers. The King and Queen were there, attending to their son, but as soon as the messenger arrived with Stan, the King took his leave, and the Queen rose.

            “Thank you for coming, Stanley,” the Queen said. Stan and the messenger bowed. The Queen sent the messenger away, then continued, “When I told my son you were looking for him, all he has talked of since has been wanting to see you. He does need his rest, but there are books to read. Thank you for being my son’s friend.”

            “Thank… thank _you,_ your majesty,” said Stan, before standing back up. The Queen smiled, patted his head, and left the room.

            Stan looked over at the large bed at the center of the room, where Kyle lay resting, looking small in the extravagant room. Stan walked quietly closer to the bed, hardly even noticing the intricate carvings in the walls and ceiling, or the warm golden glow of the room. He was only concerned about Kyle.

            Stan selected a book from a stack close to the bed, proud that he could read the Elven words on the front, and sat on a chair at Kyle’s bedside. “Are you awake?” he asked.

            “Stan?” Kyle asked, opening his eyes.

            “Hello, Kyle,” Stan said. “I’m here. Are you feeling okay?”

            Kyle looked at Stan, turned onto his side, and stiffly shook his head. He closed his eyes again.

            Stan’s heart skipped. “Are you sick?” Stan asked. “I heard that elves couldn’t catch illness.”

            “Some elves can,” Kyle said, half into his pillow. “That’s what Mother says.”

            “How long till you get well?” Stan wanted to know.

            “I don’t know.” Kyle opened his eyes, and they were cloudy with uncertain tears. “Is that a book?” he asked.

            “Oh! Yes,” said Stan, holding it up. “I… I can read Elven now. Quite well. I’ve been studying.”

            Kyle managed to smile, though even the effort to do that seemed to make him tired.

            “Would you like me to read to you?” Stan offered.

            Kyle settled into his pillow, set his eyes on Stan, and said, “Yes, please.”

            Stan smiled in return, opened the book, and began to read.

            He returned to do the same for the next two days, and on the third, Kyle was up and about and well again, his illness having come and gone as though it had never touched him at all.

            But neither of them knew, then, that one year later, Stan would again be at Kyle’s bedside, wearing the uniform not of a page but of a knight, comforting Kyle not in sickness, but in grief. For one year later was the conclusion of the great war with the Demon King. One year later was the beginning of Kyle’s reign, and the end of their childhood.

* * *

            A light _thud_ outside his door roused Stan in the morning. He usually woke before the sun, conditioned in his routine, but the previous evening had been more than taxing. The ale had not helped, either. Still, he was on his feet and palming the dagger he had kept under his pillow in seconds. Stan cautiously approached the wooden door, unlatched it, and eased it open.

            No one was on the other side. Stan scrutinized what he could of the hall, then looked down to find a parcel and a pitcher of water. Stan sighed, stabbed the dagger into the wall in case he’d need it later, and crouched down to accept the items. Tied to the parcel with twine was a note, reading: _4 gold — Management._

            Stan rolled his eyes but could not argue. And Feldspar had promised that the tavern would be a source for all provisions. Stan took the items inside, set the pitcher down beside the basin on the table next to the bed, then unwrapped the parcel to find that it contained a fresh tunic and trousers and a leather roll filled with a brush, straight razor, and salve for shaving. “Well,” Stan said, regarding the items. “Four is still high.”

            He could not complain, though. He was in no position to complain. His life had become a whirlwind, and he realized, uneasily, that this was the first morning in his life that he had woken without having duties to the palace; without the possibility of seeing Kyle. The first morning in his life that mattered, at least—he could remember precious little of the life he had had before he was seven. The family that had sent him away had never cared to find him, but Stan was grateful for that. Not once in his life had he wanted to leave Kyle’s side, nor the beautiful elven kingdom he called home.

            He just had to reclaim the life he had built. And save Kyle. And soon.

            Stan tried to clear his mind and focus on the immediate as he poured water into the basin and used the cloth on the table to wash. He shaved in his helm’s reflection and dressed in his newly provided clothes, and tied on his belt, feeling safer with his sword at his side, even with the tavern’s protection. He rolled up his knight’s uniform with a mix of reverence—for the life he’d been able to live—and resentment—for what the false Princess had tried to turn it into. Stan tucked his kingdom clothing underneath the mattress, hid his helm in a shadowy corner, and splashed his face with cold water one more time to help him center his thoughts and move forward.

            On his way out the door, Stan plucked the dagger from the wall and tucked it into his boot, realizing only while he was locking the door that Wendy would probably charge him for the damage, too.

            Upon entering the main room of the tavern, Stan instantly wondered how it was that no other resident, permanent or otherwise, could mistake Wendy for anything but a Valkyrie, given the three beautiful, broad-shouldered women who occupied the middle seats of the bar. They were dressed plainly enough, but Stan knew a warrior when he saw one. But he chose not to pry, and instead sought out Clyde, who was found again in the corner.

            It was much harder for Clyde to hide his features in the daylight. The scars crossing his face were still angry as they had been the day they’d been carved, and with both hands currently occupied stuffing a pipe, it was clear now that both were burned and bandaged. Stan wondered how well Clyde could ride or fight, if the damage to his hands made it difficult to hold reins or weaponry, but he’d had a fine handle of his tankard the previous night, and his current task did not seem labored. He just bore too many reminders of the battle that had destroyed so many lives… Clyde’s included.

            Stan sat down across the table from Clyde, who did not look up as he said, “I like the blonde one.”

            “What?” Stan asked.

            Clyde ticked his head toward the bar and set down the pipe. “The blonde one,” he repeated. Stan wanted to reprimand him for speaking that way about a Valkyrie, but held his tongue. “How about you? The black hair, or the brown?”

            “Oh, no,” Stan said. “None.”

            Clyde stared at Stan. “What kind of knight are you?”

            “One that prefers the company of others like myself.”

            “Ah,” said Clyde. He took out a small dagger and struck a piece of flint against the steel to light the pipe, blew a circle of smoke into the air, and looked back over at the Valkyrie at the bar. “More for me.”

            Stan drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. Perhaps there was something to be said for certain codes. “I’m not paying you to fantasize about women,” Stan said. “I need you to fetch something for me.”

            “Right. What’ll it be, Marsh?”

            “I need a map,” Stan said. “A map of any nearby towns wherein we won’t arouse suspicion. Preferably ones with libraries, or magic scholars who won’t ask questions.”

            “A map?” Clyde repeated, smoke billowing out of his nose and mouth. “Do I look like a cartographer?”

            “You look like someone who can find things. Someone who I am _paying_ to find things.”

            “Yeah,” said Clyde, standing, “all right. Fair’s fair. Find me at dinner. I’ll have your map.” Clyde threw on a long coat with mismatched brass and steel buttons, took another puff from his pipe, and left without another word. The attire made Stan wonder if Clyde had once had a stint in piracy in the waters past the far southern border, but chose not to devote any more thoughts to the ranger than he needed to.

            Stan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he contemplated the tumultuous day that lay behind him. He was grateful to Feldspar and Thresher, scared for Kyle, and worried about his options from here on. Until he had a map of possible leads, Stan could not consider or plan how long it would take to mount an investigation against the dragon masquerading as the Princess, let alone a defensive attack to protect Kyle’s kingdom.

            He looked over at the bar and made the mental note to watch the Valkyrie’s actions. If the women returned in the evening, or the following day or further on, Stan would not be able to hold back much longer from potentially trying to talk them into fighting for his kingdom’s cause. The Valkyrie would, of course, never side with the warlocks, but they had given allegiance to their sister-in-arms Princess Kenny in the recent past. There was no telling how firm that loyalty still was.

            Stan did not realize he was hungry until a plate of hot food was set down in front of him. He stared at it, then looked up at the person who had brought it over—the chef he’d caught a glimpse of the previous evening. The chef was a large, older man, with dark skin and a greying black beard, and kind eyes.

            “Thank you,” Stan managed.

            “I’m not usually one for table service,” said the chef. “But I’ve never seen you around here before. Where’d you come from?”

            “Elsewhere,” Stan answered. “By way of the Creek.”

            The chef contemplated this for a moment, then said, “All right, then.”

            Stan considered smiling, but was unsure what—if any—emotions he could display at the hidden tavern. “Thank you for the meal,” he said instead.

            “Twice a day,” the chef reminded him. He turned to go, then faced Stan again and observed, “You don’t look well. Do you need a medic?”

            “I’m just tired,” Stan said. “And troubled.”

            “Why troubled?”

            “Nothing worth telling,” said Stan. He did manage a slight smile for the well-meaning man. “Otherwise I might reveal how it is I came to be here.”

            The chef paused a moment, then leaned forward against the table. “Now, I may not know who you are or where you came from, young man,” he said, “but I can tell love in a man’s eyes when I see it. Lost, or hoping to win?”

            “Certainly not lost,” Stan said. “Not yet.”

            “Fight on, then,” said the chef. And with that he took his leave, singing quietly to himself.

            _Fight on, then,_ Stan repeated in his head. After setting aside a small sampling of his food for the spirits, as was elven custom, Stan ate slowly and began to plot out in his mind possible courses of exactly how to fight on, keeping an eye on the Valkyrie and wondering what might come of the map he’d sent Clyde to find.

* * *

            Stan’s first lessons with Feldspar in training his Sight were not as eventful as he had hoped, but magic took time, especially for humans. But at only eight years old, Feldspar was well practiced in it, so Stan had hope.

            He met Feldspar every morning just before the sun rose, which gave him two hours before he needed to be back at the barracks for his usual day. Feldspar started Stan off with recognizing notches in trees, and from there drilled Stan in exercises of focus. For several days, Stan did little more for two hours than sit in the underbrush of the forest and stare at Feldspar’s marked trees.

            Until the day the early sunlight revealed a pattern.

            Stan thought at first that his eyes were tricking him, and he was simply overtired and did not possess the gift of Sight at all, but he had heard Kyle talk often about the forest’s _threads._ It was two weeks after Stan’s training had begun that he saw one for the first time. It was a simple gold line connecting the notch on one tree to the notch on another, and looked more like a colored spider’s web than anything remarkable.

            But that, Stan realized, was precisely what the Sight was. Magic was as unremarkable to those who could perform it as swordsmanship was to a trained warrior. It was as natural as anything, and thus it both came from and fed into nature itself.

            “You see something,” Feldspar observed. He was sitting across from Stan, and had done so every morning, sometimes leaving to check or set traps, but mostly sitting and waiting, and making sure Stan did not give up or try to cheat. There was no cheating something like the Sight, after all.

            “The trees are connected,” Stan answered.

            “Anything else?” Feldspar prompted.

            “It’s beautiful,” Stan said.

            “I mean, I guess.”

            Stan smiled, and watched the sunlight flicker off the single thread. “It is,” he affirmed. And in doing so, another thread revealed itself to him, crossing the other in a slightly more subtle hue, connecting two other trees at a further distance. “There’s two,” he said. “They’re crossing.”

            “Crossing like…?”

            “Like… like a loom,” said Stan. He looked excitedly at Feldspar. “Is that it?” he asked. “Why you call them _threads?”_

            _“I_ don’t call them that, everyone does,” said Feldspar. “But yes. They weave the forest together. They weave everything together. There’s threads around you, and around me. There’s threads tying people together. And places. And objects. Some are stronger than others.”

            Stan looked up again, but the threads were gone. His heart sank for a moment, but then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused. When he opened his eyes again, he saw still more threads throughout the forest. “What now?” he asked, of both Feldspar and the forest.

            “Now you keep looking,” said Feldspar. “You keep noticing. And you keep teaching me how to read.”

            Stan laughed, then joined Feldspar with one of his lesson books, and continued with his own part of the bargain.

            But later into that evening, after the royal family had finished with their dinner, Stan found Kyle and the two were permitted to play together until the lanterns were to be dimmed for the night. Kyle brought Stan excitedly to the main library, where he hefted open a large book that had been laid out on a reading table.

            “Is this about flame magic?” Stan asked, leaning over the book.

            “It is!” Kyle said proudly. “I’d cast a spell to show you, but it would probably not be wise in here.”

            Stan laughed. “Perhaps on my next rest day,” Stan suggested. “I’d like to see what magic you can do, Kyle. I’ll bet you’re already great at it.”

            “I’m certainly doing my best,” Kyle boasted. “And how about you, Stan? There are squire confirmations coming up. Are you going to try for it?”

            “I think so,” Stan said.

            “Oh, you should!” Kyle encouraged him. “You haven’t had many rest days lately. You must be studying hard.”

            “Oh, well, um… I’ve been… I’ve been getting extra lessons, but not from the knights,” Stan told his closest friend.

            “What do you mean?” Kyle asked.

            “There’s a boy who lives in the forest,” Stan said. “Feldspar.”

            Kyle gasped. “Of the Creek?”

            “Yes, that’s what he said. Do you know him? Is he your friend, too?”

            “Sort of, though I rarely see him,” Kyle said. “How do you know Feldspar?”

            “I’ve been trading lessons with him!” Stan said. “I teach him how to read, and he teaches me… Kyle, he’s taught me how to use the Sight.”

            Kyle’s eyes widened, and he showed a broad smile before hugging Stan tightly. “Stan!” he exclaimed. “That’s wonderful news! I knew you could do it!”

            “I think I just needed a human tutor,” Stan admitted, a little embarrassed.

            “Oh, yes, that makes sense,” Kyle agreed. “Stan, I’m so happy for you!”

            “Thank you,” Stan said modestly. When Kyle sat back, Stan said, “Perhaps when I’ve become more accustomed to it, we could practice together?”

            “Of course!” Kyle said. “I’d be delighted to help you hone your Sight. “I’m so happy we have something else to share.”

            Stan smiled, and responded, “As am I.”

* * *

            Kyle spent as much of his day avoiding the Princess as he could.

            Luckily enough, it was a lesson day for Ike, so Kyle hovered and tutored and remained in the library, watching his ward’s form as Ike copied down sigils from the same spellbook Kyle had used in his earlier lessons. Kyle managed to relax a little, at least able to breathe in the library, but the long hours in the expansive quiet of the room did allow his mind to wander.

            _Stoke your flame._

            What could Stan have meant by that? No matter the reason, it did portend a battle, and Kyle hoped that he could keep his calm around the Princess in the coming days. Or however long it took for Stan to return.

            Kyle’s heart sank.

            He should not have lost his temper with Stan. He knew he shouldn’t have, and he felt miserable.

            Kyle shook his head and stared down at Ike’s books. Ike, like many elves from the northern kingdom, was also quite gifted in flame magic; most sources of heat in the cold north were magical, after all. Ike was excelling at much the same rate Kyle had. And, just as Kyle had seen his first battle at far too young an age, it seemed as though the same might be true for his ward.

            Ike caught Kyle staring at the pages.

            “Is it wrong?” Ike asked.

            Kyle picked his head up. “Hm? Oh, no, no,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ike. You’re doing marvelously. Would you like to move onto weaving the spell?”

            Ike considered this, looking down at the pages, then back up at Kyle. “It’s a bit too complicated, still, I think,” Ike said. “But I can try.”

            “No rush,” Kyle said, hoping that was true. He fell silent, his mind too full of regret and worry to think of much else.

            “Kyle?” Ike asked after a moment.

            “Yes?”

            “Where is Sir Stanley?” Ike asked. Kyle felt the world collapse around him. “I haven’t seen him today. Is he unwell?”

            Kyle had no words with which to answer. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything was frozen and fractured, and Kyle only knew that Stan had fled for good reason, and would return prepared to fight the Princess, to end whatever her scheme was once and for all.

            “Ike,” Kyle said, steadying his voice best he could, “Stan has… Sir Stanley has gone to patrol the borders. One never knows when another threat may rear its head.”

            “But isn’t he your bodyguard?” Ike pressed. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

            Kyle wanted to cry. “Stan is an exemplary knight, Ike,” Kyle said, for his own reassurance as well. “I trust him with any task he takes on.”

            “Oh,” said Ike. He went back to his books for a moment, then asked, “Kyle, do you…?”

            “Hmm?”

            Ike stared up at Kyle, studying his expression. Kyle knew he was close to tears and turned away. It was all the answer his ward needed, but Ike was considerate not to pry any further.

            Kyle stood once Ike was invested once again in his work, and walked into the stacks. He checked around for any sign of the Princess or her paladin; finding, thankfully, neither, Kyle went about stacking books into his arms. He selected a few that might offer wards against necromancy and other general malicious magic from the west that he could add to the collection he had begun to read when he first suspected that the Princess might be a reanimated corpse.

            His primary interest today, however, was selecting books on higher level flame enchantment.

            Whatever the Princess wanted, whether she was herself or glamoured or something evil disguised as the Princess and sent by the warlocks, Kyle needed to be ready to counter her. With Stan away, Kyle needed to return to his work of secretly building up his understanding and defense.

            _Keep your fire burning._

            Kyle left Ike under the watchful eye of his magic tutor, and hurried the books up to his bedchamber before anyone could catch him slipping away.

– – –

            Clyde was good on his word, and found Stan toward the end of the dinner hours, dropping a rolled-up parchment in front of him. Clyde slid into the seat across from Stan and removed his wide-brimmed hat, causing his unkempt brown hair to spill out in all directions. Clyde brushed back his hair a little and pulled a piece of twine out from his coat pocket, tying back the slight length of it at the base of his head.

            “All right, Marsh,” Clyde said, folding his arms on the table. “One map, as requested. Give it a look. Food still on?”

            “I believe so,” Stan said dismissively, unrolling the parchment.

            While the ranger tried to catch the attention of one of the female servers for a dinner plate, Stan studied the map. Clyde had pulled through—it was exactly what Stan needed. The southern region, from the Midlands and into Kenny’s kingdom, was drawn out by a professional, with towns marked with an _x_ indicating not to go, or a crude star indicating that they were safe. Two towns were illustrated with skulls, which was all Stan needed to know about them.

            There were seven starred areas on the map. Stan had three weeks, minus one day. Minus two days. If he rode fast, and if he had help, he could seek out and very possibly find the information he needed to expose the false Princess and save Kyle and his kingdom. Stan rolled the map back up and stuck it into his belt for safekeeping, then returned to his own barely eaten dinner while Clyde was still—unnecessarily—profusely thanking the woman who had brought his food to the table.

            Stan cleared his throat. Clyde shrugged him off, winked at the woman who worked in the tavern, then returned to conversation when the woman left.

            “Hope this is good,” Clyde said.

            “The food? Of course it—”

            “The conversation. She didn’t bother about my scars.”

            Stan looked at Clyde, noting that he was serious, then looked down.

            “Hey,” the ranger said. Stan looked up again. “You hired me, you have to look at me. I get it. I look like an ongoing battle. I understand that. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a woman who doesn’t ask questions? _Very._ Let me have my fun.”

            “Yes, all right,” Stan said. “I apologize.” He paused a second, then offered, “They aren’t as bad as you might think.”

            “Pff. No use lying to me,” Clyde said, starting in on his food.

            Stan silently picked at his own.

            After another stretch of silence, Clyde asked as he ate, “So the map. Good?”

            “Yes,” Stan said. “It’s perfect.”

            “Thought so. What do you need it for?”

            “To plot out where to ride. You know this area?”

            “I know my territory as well as the Creek know theirs,” Clyde boasted.

            “Good. You’ll ride with me,” Stan declared.

            “I’m no squire.”

            “I don’t need a squire, I need a ranger,” Stan insisted. “I _hired_ a ranger. Protection is one of your services, and I am not making these trips alone.”

            “To all seven?”

            “Yes, unless I find what I need before the end.”

            Clyde shook his head and let out a low whistle. “You’re gonna need to pay again after the third,” Clyde said. “I’m not an idiot.”

            “Fine, yes, I’ll pay you what you need,” Stan said. “But we ride out in the morning. I trust you to take us to the nearest first. And we’ll need horses. Get me a fast one.”

            “Right, all right, I have a question,” Clyde said, brushing his nearly finished plate aside. Stan looked up to find Clyde staring intently at him. “I don’t ask many when I take jobs, but this isn’t my ordinary fare. How well do you know the Creek? I still find it hard to believe that a knight—”

            “Feldspar was the one who suggested I hire you,” Stan said, which struck Clyde silent. The ranger glanced around, then almost nervously back at Stan. “Problem?” Stan asked.

            “Nobody calls them by individual name,” Clyde said. “You know him?”

            “I know them both. Very well,” Stan answered.

            Clyde studied Stan again, then signaled for a server, who seemed to read Clyde’s mind by approaching with a pint of ale. Clyde drank down a bit of it, then leaned back in his seat. “You on a quest, knight?” he asked Stan.

            “I could be,” Stan said.

            Clyde raised his eyebrows, but said nothing for a moment. He took another drink of his ale, signaled to the server that he needed another, then set down the half empty glass stein and said, “Well, I’m a man of my word, and I’ll work as long as I’m paid. But damn, Marsh, I don’t know if I want to know how you fell in with the Creek. You’re either disgraced as every hell or you’re a blessed champion and I have no idea which I’d rather be working for.”

            “Then the conversation ends there,” Stan said. “Don’t drink too much. I always wake before dawn.”

            “Oh, for—” Clyde started to protest, but Stan had already risen from his seat.

            Stan took the map up to his room and studied it by moonlight until he had the paths burned into his memory. One of those starred villages had to have information that could help Kyle and the entire forest kingdom. That was all the motivation Stan needed to continue on, for now. There had to be _something._

            Clyde’s question came back to him: was Stan on a quest?

            Stan washed his face, tucked his dagger under his pillow, and lay back, running through his courses of action, and the life that had led him to this point… the life he was determined to continue to lead when all of this was over.

            Yes, Stan decided. He was on a quest. He was a knight, after all, and Captain of the Guard of the Kingdom of the Drow Elves.

            Sir Stanley had embarked on a quest. A quest for truth, and for honor. Possibly even for love. And he would do whatever it took, he told himself; he would face any trial necessary if it meant peace for his King and his kingdom.

– – –


	7. VII. First Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan makes a few connections as he sets out on his journey for truth, and receives an unexpected piece of news.

            After the morning meal, Stan followed a surprisingly sober Clyde to the tavern stables, where the ranger handed Stan the reins of a fine black stallion. “One horse, as ordered,” Clyde said.

            Slightly aghast, Stan took the reins, then gave Clyde a suspicious glare. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

            “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying,” Clyde said, mounting another horse, this one brown and white. “I’m a ranger, not a thief. Well, unless I’m specifically paid to be. Which, I assume with you being a knight and all, I’m currently not.”

            “No,” Stan said. He mounted the steed, and the horse welcomed its rider. Stan breathed a bit of a sigh, glad he didn’t have to waste any time breaking in a new horse. “But that’s another thing,” Stan said as they began to set out, “no calling me a knight on these trips.”

            Clyde shrugged and readjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “Whatever you say, Marsh,” he said. “Where to first?”

            “I’d like to try the closest town to begin with,” Stan said. Glad he’d left home wearing his cloak, Stan pulled up his hood. His name was protected, and by a Valkyrie at that, but he could not be too cautious.

            “Fine by me.”

            As they rode, Stan’s unease at his choice of hire grew. Given a long period of silence in Clyde’s presence, Stan began to doubt Feldspar’s recommendation. But Feldspar was never wrong, and he had said that Clyde was free of possession.

            But that did not erase the fact that Clyde once had _welcomed_ possession. That he had been the vessel of the Demon King who allied with the warlocks in the battle that had killed Kyle’s parents. Stan did not know Clyde’s story, nor did he much want to, and it was not in Stan’s nature to hate… but he would not trust Clyde completely. He couldn’t.

            “What do you want?” Clyde asked, turning to shoot a scathing glance at Stan. “I can tell when I’m being watched.”

            “I’m just trying to sort you out,” Stan said plainly. “You’re lucky you came recommended to me by the Creek, else I doubt I’d want anything to do with you.”

            “Yeah? You and the rest of the realms,” Clyde said. He snorted and turned back to face the road. “Everyone at the tavern has a reason for ending up there. Let me deal with my circumstances in my own way.”

            Stan scoffed and rode forward. “By drinking your nights away?” he said.

            “Listen, I can stop helping you any moment I choose and run off with your gold, you pompous knight,” Clyde snapped.

            “Do it, then,” Stan challenged. “I’m sure the Creek will be impressed.”

            Clyde fell silent, but Stan heard the steady steps of the horse behind him.

            And in silence they rode until they had reached Stan’s first destination. It was a well enough sized village, large enough to have a town square. Stan tugged the hood of his cloak down toward his eyes to keep his face well hidden, and kept his gaze forward, falling back to allow the ranger to lead the way to the village library.

            They hitched their horses to posts provided outside the two-storey, plain-looking wooden building, and Stan held his breath as they entered. He needed information. Anything he could find. Anything at all.

            While Clyde attempted to charm the human cleric woman who ran the library, Stan slipped away into the stacks, unsure of where to begin. After a moment to clear his head, he started with the legal documents.

            As it was not a court library, however, Stan found precious little in the way of court documents; there were decrees by and on behalf of Princess Kenny and her parents, dating back through the last several years, but little beyond what the towns would need to know on the surface. The ledger books that he found were all copied, besides, so nowhere could he find a sampling of the Princess’s personal handwriting. If nothing else, Stan thought, bringing back a document in her own hand and asking her to write something new might prove her falsehood… but that would still doubtfully sway the councils to belief.

            Stan abandoned the legal documents for any field testimonials he could find on dragons. Certainly the false Princess was weak against fire… but it seemed fruitless to suggest that Kyle simply attack her with flame and be done with her. There was no knowing whether or not she would resume her form as a dragon, thus throwing the councils into an understandable panic, and even if she did, there would be no trail back to the real Princess Kenny or her sister. No… Stan needed to keep searching for something. Anything.

            The information on dragons was scarce; the town seemed to favor sea trade, given the multiple writings on mermaids, sea serpents, and sirens. Little to nothing about frost dragons in particular. It was well known that the majority of dragons came from the lands to the west, and that while they seemed to keep to their own society, they could be persuaded into alliance with the warlocks.

            There was only one entry in a study on dragons that he found useful: confirmation that, indeed, a dragon in league with a magic user of any kind was bound to the one they served. Meaning that Stan could rest assured that the dragon masquerading as the Princess had a duty to fulfill, and that meant keeping Kyle alive in order for the marriage to go through. Despite the dark magic so close to home, Kyle was safe, for now.

            But Stan did have to hurry. He spent the entire day in the library, and found nothing that he could bring back to the palace as proof that the Princess had been replaced by a dragon. He would need to continue his quest elsewhere.

            When he returned to the front of the building hours later, Clyde was no longer there—which Stan had more or less expected—and neither was the woman who ran the library—which, Stan realized, he probably _should_ have expected. Stan stepped outside to find both horses still hitched to their post. The sun was going down, so he waited by the horses a few more minutes for the ranger to return.

            Before Stan could make the call to leave on his own, Clyde exited the library, clothing disheveled. He took out his pipe and was about to light it when he noticed Stan. “Oh,” Clyde said. “Done already?”

            “I have been,” Stan said. He tried not to make a remark, then shook his head and said, “Your coat’s on inside out,” before mounting his horse.

            “So it is,” Clyde said. “How’d that happen?”

            “Ugh,” Stan remarked. He’d hired the most debauched person he had ever met, but Clyde had been proving more or less helpful, so Stan tried to ignore the ranger’s vices.

            “Find anything?” Clyde asked, relenting and tucking his pipe away after righting his coat.

            “Regrettably, no,” Stan said. “We’ll set out again tomorrow.”

– – –

            The next town lay further away, and the next further than that, now leading well into Princess Kenny’s realm, where Stan took extra precautions not to be noticed in the towns’ respective libraries. Clyde was able to procure suitable lodging in both towns (with an advance in gold), but Stan barely slept, devouring every word of every book he could find that might lead him closer to some tangible proof that he could bring back to Kyle’s council. If they believed above all in the written word, then the written word was Stan’s best defense, his best option for getting the wedding at the very least delayed as the council mounted an investigation.

            But that was three towns in over one week, now, and when they returned to Wendy’s tavern, Stan slumped over the table and asked not for ale but mead, so that he could at least be reminded somewhat of home. Ale was a human preference, and Stan drank it at the tavern to be kind, but the elven court favored mead, which was much sweeter and lighter. The mead they served at the tavern was acceptable, and much better in Stan’s opinion than ale, but nothing compared to what he was used to in Larnion. Still, the taste of home was enough to give Stan a little encouragement after a week of false starts.

            It had been three weeks since he’d had a proper conversation with Kyle, and knowing this both hurt Stan and spurred him on. He had to return, and set things right.

            “Isn’t mead a celebratory thing?” Clyde asked from across the table.

            “Thank you for calling attention to my failures,” Stan bit back.

            Clyde shrugged. “Just saying.”

            “It’s… never mind. We ride out again tomorrow.” Stan took out the map and laid it out on the table. Staring down at it, Stan angrily pulled out a dagger and cut a slit in the parchment over the latest town that had failed to give him any information.

            “Hey, hey, hey!” Clyde said. “I paid good money for that!”

            “Sorry,” Stan said, tucking the dagger away again. “I’m just… I’m frustrated.”

            “What exactly is it that you’re looking for?” Clyde wanted to know. “You’ve just been saying, _library, library._ That’s nothing, libraries have all manner of things. The Creek are well connected and so am I. If there’s something _specific_ you need that I can find you so that I can be rid of your miserable languishing, then _maybe_ I could do the job you just today said I’ve not been doing.”

            Stan sat back, regarded the ranger, then sighed. Stan held his head in his hands for a moment, and took a deep breath. Pining for home and getting upset over failures would not do him any good. Stan had less than two weeks, and he needed to refocus his efforts.

            “I suppose you’re right,” Stan said, picking his head back up. He had to keep the details vague, but he could at least say, “I need to slay a dragon.”

            Clyde stared at him, then took a drink of ale, then stared again. Glowered, really.

            “What?” Stan asked.

            “You are… you are the very _definition_ of a knight’s quest,” Clyde said. “But, fine. Fine. That’s something.”

            “Thank you?” Stan said.

            “Hmm.” Clyde threw back another swig of ale, then reclined in his chair and said, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re always carrying a sword. Guess I should have figured you might be tied to something like this. Ever slay a dragon before?”

            “I regret to say that I have not.”

            “You any good with that sword?”

            Stan took that moment to glower right back, and he immediately came to his own defense. “Yes,” he insisted. “I’m the best.”

* * *

            Stan had become Larnion’s champion when he was fifteen.

            His entire existence in the elven realm had been spent trying to prove himself, so when the Tournament of Champions was held to establish who would become the new Captain of the Guard after the former knight stepped down from his long-held position, Stan knew he needed to enter. He was one of only four humans who entered the Tournament out of the twenty contestants, but the fact that he was not the only one was not lost on him.

            In fact, one of the human contenders, despite being two years older than Stan, remarked that Stan had inspired him to join the barracks in the first place.

            “Really?” Stan asked. He had met the other human, still a squire, in the weapons tent before the first challenge.

            “Of course, Sir,” the squire said. “Haven’t you noticed the increasing number of human pages and squires in the court? Our numbers are still few, but you, who served in battle alongside his highness the King, inspired most of us. I wish you luck in the Tournament, Sir.”

            “And I you,” Stan said, still in shock. “Please… please give your all, and don’t sway things in my favor,” he added.

            “You needn’t worry about that, Sir,” said the squire. “We’re all here for the same purpose, after all.”

            Stan nodded, readied himself, and stepped out onto the field.

            It was quite the occasion. While games, festivals, and tourneys occurred throughout the year for various celebrations and historic customs, a Tournament like this had not taken place since the days before Kyle’s father had married, let alone been crowned King himself. This Tournament would have its own place in Larnion history, and Stan both took this fact to heart and tried to push it from his mind as he took his place in the line of nineteen other hopefuls vying for the title of champion, where they presented themselves as contenders before the King.

            Age, gender, rank, and experience did not matter for such a contest. Those who entered knew full well what their odds were, and how difficult the challenges would be. There were squires trying their luck, and two sorcerers, but the majority of the contestants were knights. While age and experience mattered little in the contest, it was clear that the four elder, elven knights were favored to win. Stan looked over his competition and told himself to at least make it to the final round.

            When Kyle stood to address the contestants, Stan told himself instead that he needed to win.

            “Today,” Kyle announced to the challengers and the crowd, from his place in the stands where he would watch each and every contest, “is an auspicious day for Larnion. The twenty of you gathered here on this field are among the finest soldiers in this realm, and I will be most fortunate to call any of you my new Captain of the Guard. But to become Larnion’s champion, you must prove yourself in contests of strength, cunning, and Sight. Challenges will occur on these fields each day for the next week, or until a victor is named. Never strike to kill. Do not use underhanded means to win. Best of luck to all of you.”

            But Stan saw, quite clearly, that Kyle was looking directly at him when speaking those final words.

            The first day’s challenges, in archery and riding, brought the number of contestants down to sixteen; the following day, after jousting and a test of Sight in the thick of the forest to retrieve a particular item, the number decreased to twelve. And every day, Stan was one of the best in both performance and sportsmanship, never holding a victory over those who had been defeated, never outwardly comparing himself to the others who won the challenges.

            Stan was sure to look to the stands before and after each event, proud to know that Kyle was watching attentively, but somewhat jealous that, two days in, a young elven woman had started being seated beside Kyle, and other visiting nobles from throughout Larnion would pay the King’s platform a visit. Kyle would keep them in conversation, but was clearly much more interested in observing the Tournament. Or, at least, Stan hoped that that was the truth of the matter.

            The evening before the final challenge, when the number of contestants had dwindled to three, Kyle met Stan at the edge of the forest, and sat with him in the quiet of the dusk as together they watched the full moon rise over the horizon. “You’ve done so well thus far, Stan,” Kyle complimented him, smiling proudly. “I knew you would.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said, the blush in his cheeks hidden by the dusk. It was when Stan was fifteen that he had begun falling in love with Kyle; when he became attuned to thoughts of fancy, and admiration became so much deeper than mere friendship would allow. “You know that I would be honored to be the kingdom’s champion, Kyle. But whatever happens tomorrow, I will respect the outcome.” He sighed, and leaned forward onto his knees, eyes fixed on the rising moon. “I don’t even have my sword for life, yet,” Stan lamented. “The elder knights would be much more suited to the title than I.”

            “Nonsense,” Kyle said, giving Stan’s shoulder a light, encouraging shove. “You’re as good a knight as any in my court, Stan.”

            Stan laughed. He angled his head so he could look back at Kyle, and he asked, “Promise me, whatever the outcome, that you will respect the winner, as well.”

            “I shall,” Kyle said defiantly, “for it’s sure to be you.”

            “Kyle.”

            Kyle laughed as well and mirrored the way Stan sat, angled forward onto his knees. “I know,” Kyle said. “I’ll respect the outcome, of course. But you are _my_ champion, no matter what any Tournament decides.”

            Stan smiled— _beamed,_ really—and turned his eyes back to the moon.

            After a moment of listening to the crickets and the wind, Stan ventured to ask, “Who is that girl? The one who has been in the stands with you at the contests?”

            “Which one?” Kyle asked.

            “With the black hair,” Stan said, trying not to sound jealous.

            “Oh, _she?”_ Kyle said, sounding unimpressed. “The Lady Isla? Some daughter of some nobleman. A lord of good standing who looks over one of the villages in the meadow region. She’s dull.”

            “Is she?” Stan asked, feeling his jealousy fade.

            “Very,” Kyle said. “My council lauds her, of course, but I don’t fancy her. I’m sure they’d rather I fancy a lady so that when I’m twenty I’ll marry one and we’ll have children and their jobs will be secure for still more generations.” Stan laughed lightly. Kyle smiled, but then sighed. “I don’t.”

            “What?”

            “Fancy women,” Kyle said.

            Stan’s heartbeat sped up, and he half feared that Kyle could hear it. “Oh?” he asked.

            “Mm.” Kyle continued looking out at the moon, folding his arms over his knees and resting his chin in them like a pillow. “There’s nothing wrong with them, of course,” Kyle said. “I’d just rather court men. That’s all.”

            “Do, then,” Stan suggested, possibly too quickly.

            “Oh, I’ve brought it up,” Kyle said. His green eyes fell closed, and he nestled his head further into his crossed arms. “The council has so many meetings arranged for me, with noble ladies and gentlemen alike. In two years, I’ll start being expected to host a ball or some such nonsense. It’s tiresome. Nobility is such a chore, Stan, you’re not missing out.”

            “Hmm. I can’t say I envy you,” Stan said teasingly, which got Kyle to open his eyes and laugh again.

            Stan leaned back against the trunk of the tree behind them, and Kyle followed suit. After a moment, Kyle rested his head on Stan’s, and there they sat for a few minutes more with their eyes on the rising moon. Stan cherished every instant.

            Kyle spoke to break the silence: “I wish there was something I could give you for luck tomorrow.”

            “Oh?” Stan asked.

            “Yes, but again—for the woe of the chores of nobility!—I shouldn’t.” Kyle sighed. “If anyone knew you carried a favour from the King, you’d be declared champion without a proper challenge,” Kyle explained. “And I, as I am _sure,_ would be the recipient of another delightfully stern talking-to by those who clearly know better.”

            Stan managed to laugh a little at Kyle’s continued indignation for the council. Both nervous and daring, Stan said, “Then I shall carry your wish of luck. No one can see that.”

            Kyle looked delighted; his ears twitched up, and he smiled brightly, nearly glowing in the moonlight. “Yes,” he agreed. “That will do.” He stood, and held his hands out to Stan. “Let me also offer you this.”

            Stan took Kyle’s hands and let him draw him up to standing. “This?” Stan asked.

            “Yes,” Kyle said. “My hands, in gratitude for all your service thus far. And,” Kyle said, taking up only Stan’s right hand in his, “my wish for your strength and success.”

            In a graceful motion, Kyle kissed the back of Stan’s hand. While Stan stood stunned, Kyle drew him in for a fond embrace. “Best of luck, tomorrow, Stan,” Kyle said. “No matter the outcome, I’m so proud to call you my friend.”

            “Thank you,” Stan managed. “And I you.”

            And in the morning, carrying Kyle’s luck as his favour, Stan bested the two elder competitors in the final challenge of swordsmanship. Whispers went up among gossips almost instantly, calling it beginner’s luck or claiming human brute strength or simply commenting that Stan’s youth gave him advantage over the elders. But the gossip did not last, and Stan was declared the undeniable winner of the Tournament.

            When Stan knealt before his King to accept his accolades at the Tournament’s closing, he lifted his head just enough to see the pride in Kyle’s expression. Kyle showed a warm smile, then offered his hands to Stan. The King drew his knight up to standing, then nudged Stan just a little before beckoning him to turn and face the crowd. Stan nearly felt dizzy, from the late afternoon sun, from the din of the Tournament still ringing in his ears, from the sheer number of people—nobles and commoners, elves and humans alike—who had come from throughout the realm to watch the historic event and who were now giving Stan their undivided attention. He was _nearly_ dizzy, but he had Kyle. Kyle, who helped Stan feel more at ease and motivated than anyone else ever could. Kyle, whom Stan loved more than anything else in the world.

            “People of Larnion,” Kyle announced, “I give you my new Captain of the Guard, and your new champion!”

            A cheer went up among the crowd, and Stan knew that this was the turning point.

            From that day forward, Stan resided in the palace, and had an army to command, his life having once again taken an unexpected but delightful turn. Respect for him grew immensely among the court as more and more citizens of Larnion became aware of just how determined, how selfless, and how honest their new champion was.

            And though of course he told no one, Stan continued to carry Kyle’s wish of luck with him, each and every day.

* * *

            Riding into the fourth town on Clyde’s map, Stan silently prayed to whichever spirits would listen for a stroke of luck. It had been more than a week. More than one week of travel, of hiding his face from the people of Princess Kenny’s kingdom, of shielding his name. Of not seeing Kyle. And Stan had uncovered nothing that could bring him closer to proof of the Princess’s falsehood.

            “Lead on to the library, then,” Stan asked of Clyde as they rode through the stone wall surrounding the small town.

            “We’re not going to the library,” Clyde said. “Not yet. That’s on the other side of town.”

            “Then would you mind telling me what we are doing here?” Stan insisted.

            “Getting to it.” A few paces further on the stone road that led through the center of town, Clyde gestured toward a large building. Its foundation was wood, but it had undergone what appeared to be decades worth of repairs in various places, making the structure a hodgepodge of various stones and metals and fibers. And, glinting toward the sloped roof, something iridescent.

            “What stone is that?” Stan asked.

            “Which?”

            “Toward the peak.”

            “Ah. That’s no stone,” Clyde said. “That’s straight from a dragon’s hide.”

            Stan stared a second longer, then brought his horse up beside Clyde’s and demanded, _“Where_ are you taking me?”

            “This is a hunters’ club,” Clyde answered. He laughed. “And you call yourself a friend of the Creek. I suppose you don’t keep company with many other rogues, do you?”

            “I confess that I don’t.”

            “Well, they may yet be of some service to you, Marsh,” Clyde said. “You need to learn how to slay a dragon, well, here are your dragonslayers. Can’t find that in any book.”

            “No,” Stan realized. “I suppose you’re right.”

            “You’re welcome. You can thank me with advance pay for the next trip.”

            “Of course,” Stan said, rolling his eyes.

            They hitched up their horses outside, and Stan followed Clyde up the stone steps to the large front doors of the establishment. Clyde knocked twice, paused, then knocked again three times, and then a small slit in the righthand door opened up at eye level. The person on the other side of the door took one look at Clyde, slid the small opening shut, and opened the door without a word.

            “Right, well,” Clyde said, waving a hand to indicate inside, “go to.”

            “Lead on,” Stan challenged.

            “Actually, I’ve got a _bit_ of a tab to settle up at the brothel across—”

            “You can do that later,” Stan said, cutting Clyde off quickly. “I’ll double your wages for today if you can introduce me to someone who can be of some assistance.”

            Clyde stared.

            “What?” Stan wondered.

            “How good a knight _are_ you?” Clyde had to know.

            “Is that an insult?”

            “No, I just… I don’t have much of an idea what a knight’s pension is, I suppose, but you must be of a pretty high rank if you’re tossing out gold like that.”

            “I’m not tossing it out,” Stan said, “unless your ‘help’ is not _helpful._ So, do you have any connections inside worth the extra pay?”

            Clyde glanced over his shoulder, toward the building that must have been the brothel, then sighed, relented, and said, “I might know two. Come on.” And with that, he led the way inside.

            The hunters’ club was best described, Stan thought, as _cavernous._ It was dark, with lofty, peaked ceilings, a stone floor, and a thin blanket of what looked like mist gathering overhead under the iron chandeliers. The mist, he noticed in another moment, was the smoke of a handful of pipes and the few torches mounted on the walls. The lights were kept dim, and a long bar was situated along the righthand wall; a fire blazed in a pit at the center of the great hall, and long tables and benches were situated around the pit.

            Skulls and other trophies hung on the walls, the most prominent hanging on the far back wall: a gilded dragon’s skull, easily longer than half Stan’s height, framed by two enormous rib bones from the same beast.

            Luckily, the hall was rather noisy, and no one paid much mind to the two newcomers. Clyde ticked his head toward the bar, and Stan followed, tugging his hood a little further over his head to keep his face in shadow. Clyde rapped on the bar a couple of times, and a few seconds later, a young human woman with long brown hair approached from the back end of the bar.

            “Lola,” Clyde greeted her with a grin, resting his chin in one hand. Stan tried not to roll his eyes too obviously. “How’s my favorite barkeep?”

            “Oh, am I your favorite again?” Lola asked, leaning up against the bar. “I heard you and Sally got on _quite_ well last time you came in here.”

            “Who? Ah. Yes, I remember. But never you mind,” Clyde said. “You must _know_ you’re the finest.”

            Lola scoffed a little. “What’ll it be, Clyde?” she asked.

            “Pint for myself and my friend here,” Clyde said. As Lola was procuring steins from behind the bar, Clyde added, “And, ah… any sign of Stoley or Malkinson today?”

            “Sign? _Today?_ Those two haven’t left in two days,” Lola said, filling the steins with ale. “We’re still trying to cook through all the meat from the beasts they brought back.”

            “Excellent. This is why you’re the best, Lola.”

            Lola set the steins down with two pronounced thuds and said, “Watch yourself, Clyde.”

            Clyde simply winked at her, and set down more gold on the bar than the ale was worth. As Stan followed the ranger toward the tables in the hall, he remarked, “I thought you said it was difficult for you to find women.”

            “I said it was difficult to find women who don’t bother about my scars,” Clyde corrected. “I’ve paid plenty of them to not mind. What’s rare is a woman who doesn’t ask questions up front or _expect_ payment.” Stan said nothing, and after an awkward silence, Clyde added, “Hence the brothel tab.”

            “All _right,”_ Stan said to shut Clyde up.

            Clyde sort of laughed, then stopped and elbowed Stan. Clyde ticked his head toward a table near the fire pit and said, “There’s the men you need to talk to. Can’t think of any finer insight when it comes to tracking and killing dragons.”

            “Oh?”

            The two men Clyde spoke of were seated across from one another at the long table, with a few other rogues and hunters sitting around them, listening to what looked like the two having a heated argument. Both were young, of the same general age as Stan, and both were human. One was rugged, and wearing a coat rather similar to Clyde’s, with black hair tied at the back of his head and a scar on his right cheek; the other was smaller but with a stern glare, with short but wavy brown hair and wearing a red tunic and conspicuous plates of armor on his shoulders.

            “So who are these two?” Stan asked.

            “I told you. Dragonslayers,” Clyde said. “You can’t get much better than either of them. There’s a bit of a wager going between them, so careful not to flatter one over the other.”

            “Noted.”

            “Into the fray, then,” Clyde said, and pushed Stan forward.

            They had only just barely approached the communal table by the time the very two dragonslayers in question looked up and acknowledged Stan’s guide.

            “Clyde!” said the one with black hair and a scar. “What brings you here, you miserable bastard?”

            “Stoley,” Clyde greeted in return. “Just passing through. Haven’t seen you since the _Enterprise._ Tell me, did you ever kill that sea monster?”

            “You’d have seen it yourself if you hadn’t run back to the mainland,” Stoley said.

            “Ugh. I couldn’t get off that damn ship fast enough,” Clyde said. So, Stan deduced, Clyde had indeed engaged in piracy at some point. As had Stoley, it seemed. “You keep your seas, I’ll stick to dry land.”

            “Who’s your friend?” asked the other dragonslayer, Malkinson, who spoke with something of a lisp.

            “This here’s Marsh,” Clyde said, sliding in to sit beside Stoley. Malkinson stared up at Stan, then shrugged as if to offer him a place at the table. Stan sat a cautious distance away from Malkinson. “He’s breaking into the dragonslayer racket, or so I hear,” Clyde continued, keeping the conversation casual.

            “That so?” said Malkinson. “Any kills or leads to share?”

            “Just tracking for the time being,” Stan decided on saying. “Though I could use some advice from such esteemed hunters as yourselves.”

            “Yeah?” said Malkinson. “Where’d you come from, Marsh?”

            A sting hit Stan’s chest, and for the first time since he had met Kyle as a child, Stan’s answer was, “The Midlands.” He hated saying it, but it had once been true. And he could not in any way let on who he was or that he had come from Larnion. Not this far into Kenny’s lands.

            “You any good at tracking?”

            “I should think so,” Stan said. He almost said, _I have the Sight,_ but refrained for his identity’s sake.

            Clyde leaned in to say in more of a hushed tone to the dragonslayers, “Marsh here is an ally of the Creek. Can’t get much better than that.”

            “Oh, sure,” said Stoley, looking impressed. “All right, then. What’s your target? You have a hunting party? Need one? Wherever you’re going, I do recommend a good flaming crossbow.”

            “Nah, ridiculous,” Malkinson countered. “Get enough hunters in league with you and you can just wear a beast down. Brute force they don’t see coming.”

            Stan regarded Malkinson for a moment, his eyes lighting on the dragonslayer’s armor.

            “You’re not a knight, are you?” Stan asked when curiosity got the better of him.

            “Oh, I was close once,” said Malkinson. “Wasn’t for me, in the end. Being a man for hire’s a lot more profitable in my experience, and with none of those castle rules.”

            “Did you serve the King and Queen here?” Stan wondered.

            Stoley prodded Malkinson’s arm from across the table. “Well?” he said. “Go on.”

            Malkinson rolled his eyes. “Yes. I was a squire. Until I wasn’t. It gets sickening being so overlooked for the paladins. Especially that… who is it? Leopold?”

            Stan’s heart skipped.

            _“Leopold,”_ Stoley repeated, leaning back. “Arrogance and chaos _do not mix._ But I suppose the Princess can’t do much better for a bodyguard than that.”

            Clyde glanced at Stan, clearly sensing Stan’s unease at the turn of the conversation. Veering back, Clyde thumped a hand on the table and said, “Nope. No talking about royals. It bores me to tears.”

            Stoley laughed. “The single dragon you’ve ever faced drove you to tears, too, as I recall,” he chided the ranger.

            “I was _twelve,”_ said Clyde, “and this isn’t about me.”

            Stoley laughed again, and the conversation turned for a while to talk of Stoley and Malkinson’s exploits. Both, Stan very quickly learned, had over fifty kills between them, but neither hunted much for sport. They hired themselves out in much the way that Clyde did—for others’ protection. If a dragon was menacing crops or herds, one or the other of the slayers was called in to assess the situation and remove the threat. And, more often than not, removing the threat meant killing it and any others in its clan.

            “Have either of you,” Stan dared to ask after the conversation had gone on a while, “encountered a dragon wearing a human form?”

            _“Have_ I?” Stoley repeated. “That’s how most of them wander the world these days! They’re clever. They’re tricky. They don’t shed their assumed human skin easily, either. Easy to spot, though. They never blink.”

            Stan swallowed back a lump in his throat.

            “They can act human enough,” said Malkinson, “but dragons are elementals. If you can figure out which type your opponent is and attack with their weakness, you’ve got the upper hand. Easily.”

            “With that logic,” Stan said, “a… let’s say, a frost dragon would be weakened by fire.”

            “That’s it exactly,” Malkinson confirmed.

            Stan nodded. That was the false Princess, without a doubt: a frost dragon, inevitably sent by the warlocks. Which was a bold move, on the part of the West; sending a frost dragon to a known flame sorcerer and wrapping her in the seemingly immune guise of a friend. This was also further proof, to Stan, that the false Princess would not strike until the marriage went through.

            Stan tried not to breathe too obvious a sigh of relief, but he was grateful for the information. It meant that Kyle truly did have the upper hand. The challenge, however, lay in the paladin. What could possibly counter pure lightning?

            “You going north?” Malkinson asked.

            “Pardon?” said Stan.

            “If you’re hunting frost dragons, there’s some to the West, but a nest up North.”

            “I,” Stoley boasted, “killed the last one in these parts. Traveled halfway to the stars on his back before driving him back down and claiming victory.”

            “Is that so?” Stan asked.

            _“Is that so?”_ Stoley jabbed a thumb toward the back wall. “Feast your eyes, friend.”

            It was the large skull and rib bones Stan had seen upon entering the building.

            If that was any indication, that was roughly the true size and form of the dragon currently masquerading as Princess Kenny. Stan needed tangible proof of her falsehood, and fast. He certainly did not want Kyle to be alone with that dragon any longer, but Stan could not return in too much haste. Slaying the dragon was one thing. Finding any sort of information into the true Princess’s whereabouts was another, if Leopold and the Princess’s council continued to be a threat. There was still the matter of the Princess’s parents, too, still abroad overseas but inevitably on their way home and then to Larnion for the wedding; the King and Queen would surely be vulnerable to attack then.

            Beyond that, if the warlocks caught word of their dragon’s defeat, should it come to pass without written or eyewitness evidence to the plot, there was no telling what they might do to the real Princess Kenny… or, for that matter, to her missing younger sister. Zaron would be at war in an instant, no doubt, and no one but the warlocks would be prepared.

            No, Stan needed to do this correctly. He needed to win the trust of the council once and for all. He needed to see this through as a complete quest, now that it had been settled in his mind that a quest was precisely what he had embarked on. He knew that Kyle was safe for now, and when Stan returned… when Stan returned, he needed to be sure that everything could and would be set right.

            Just then, a tall human man in long, deep purple cleric’s robes entered the building, and all activity hushed. Stan was not alone in stealing a glance at the visitor, who cleared his throat, gave the crowd a brief look over, and then turned to speak only with Lola at the bar. Lola set a ledger book down in front of the cleric; he nodded, exchanged a few words with her, then drew out a fine book of his own and a quill pen and began copying down the information on one of the pages of Lola’s ledger. Stan tried not to pay the man too much mind, but his fine clothes indicated that he had clearly come from the castle, and was not just a town magistrate of some sort. Malkinson had already seemed not to recognize Stan from any of his previous visits to the southern castle, but clerics were known to have excellent memories—for words, of course, but also for faces.

            Stan almost too quickly turned away. Clyde noticed, and cast his own worried look over at the cleric. The ranger then paled, turned to the others, and said, “Thank you for the conversation, gentlemen, but we need to leave.”

            “What for?” asked Malkinson.

            “Well, put another way, _I_ need to leave,” said Clyde.

            “What did you do?” Stan asked.

            “I didn’t do anything, really—”

            “I’d venture to say that’s fair,” said a voice overhead.

            Stan glanced up, keeping his hood over his face enough to stay in shadow, to find the cleric standing over the table. Luckily for Stan, the cleric’s dark brown eyes were fixed on Clyde.

            Clyde balked but recovered quickly by laughing and slowly, cautiously standing. “Token!” Clyde said, quite over-emphatically. “Well, fancy that. What brings the court librarian all the way down to these gutters?”

            The cleric, Token, sighed, projecting only aggravation toward the ranger. “Some of us have jobs of a higher calling to do,” he chastised Clyde. “And speaking of…”

            “Yes, you know, I was just thinking about paying my allowance,” Clyde said, cautiously taking one step back. Stan took the hint and prepared to rise and leave as well.

            “Thinking about it won’t make it so,” said Token. “I’m a very busy man.”

            “I’m sure you are,” said Clyde, “which must mean you haven’t the time for petty things like—”

            _“Piracy_ is not _petty,_ Clyde,” said Token, holding up his book. “Have you _any idea_ how long I’ve been sorting out this mess?”

            “Well, see—”

            “How much does he owe you?” Stan asked quickly, rising. He was so used to coming to another’s aid that he couldn’t stop himself.

            “I beg your pardon?” asked Token.

            “What does he owe you?” Stan asked again. “I’ll cover part of whatever he owes up front.”

            “Who are you?” Token asked.

            “Someone who wants to help,” Stan chose to say.

            “Oh? This much?” Token asked. He turned his ledger book toward Stan and opened it to a full two pages detailing charges against Clyde. Some of them had been paid. Most of them read, in the cleric’s careful script, _Pending._

            Stan sighed and counted out twelve gold pieces. He placed the coins down onto the open pages and said, “Tell me where to send the rest. I’m not carrying that much on me.”

            Token looked down, wide-eyed, at the gold on the open book, then gave Stan a very cautious look over. Stan paled but knew he could not run at this point. He did not recognize the cleric from any conversations in the past, but that did not mean that he hadn’t been present at court ceremonies when Stan had accompanied Kyle over the years to visits with the King, Queen, and Princesses.

            And, just as Stan feared, the cleric said, “You remind me of someone.”

            Stan had no answer, and saw Clyde moving around behind Token and signaling Stan toward the door. “I don’t frequent these parts often,” Stan said. “Must be coincidence.”

            Token looked down again at the gold. “Must be,” he said. Lifting his eyes to look at Stan, he added, “If you really mean to pay that ranger’s debts, then I’m not going to stop you. Send what you like to the court.”

            Token shut the book over the gold pieces, but just before he did, Stan noticed, written on the top of the two pages, a sequence of three ancient human runes in the cleric’s own script. Clerics were prone to some magical study, sure, much more easily than most in the southern kingdom, but those three runes were familiar to Stan. He’d seen them in that sequence a few times before.

            He’d only seen Feldspar use them before.

            “I’ll see that it’s done,” he answered Token. Taking a chance, Stan added in a hushed tone as he passed, “By way of the Creek.”

            The cleric gasped, and Stan saw him, out of the corner of his eye, turn. Token kept his eyes fixed on Stan as Stan grabbed Clyde by the arm and pulled him outside.

            Yes, it had been a risk to say that, but Stan had gotten more information than he thought he might from the dragonslayers. He was done with that town.

– – –

            The town had been a day’s ride away from the tavern, so Clyde led Stan to a bandits’ settlement close to the Midland border where the two were permitted to stay for the night. After they were given food in exchange for building that night’s fire, Clyde grabbed Stan by the cloak and pulled him to the side where they could speak without being heard.

            “Why did you do that?” Clyde demanded.

            “What?”

            “Offer to pay off that cleric,” Clyde said harshly. “I’m _earning_ it back, all right? Don’t… don’t do that anymore.”

            “I’m sorry,” Stan said. “It was the best I could think to do in the moment.”

            “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture,” Clyde said, “and honestly, it’s strange that anyone would even offer, but… let me do this my way. I have a lot of things I need to pay for. A lot of ground to cover. A lot of dirt in my past that I’m trying to clear away. If I don’t do it myself, I’ll just end up getting my hands dirty all over again.” Clyde looked down at his burned and bandaged hands and added, “And they really can’t take much more of it, I tell you that.”

            Stan felt a pit open up in his stomach, and he forced out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said again, more sincerely. “I know next to nothing about you beyond what I’ve seen and heard these past few days. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

            “Well,” said Clyde, a bit dully, “thanks. Just… just let me do my job as long as I need to work for you. I understand that I accrue charges, but it’s only because I _know_ I can help, and I _will_ pay Token back. And… and other people I owe.”

            “I understand,” Stan said. He was so used to helping people, and stepping up to prove himself to Kyle’s council, that he’d never really been refused before. He had never been in that position. But he understood the want to prove oneself, so he did not press the issue with Clyde at all.

            But Stan did say, “How does Token know the Creek?”

            “What?” Clyde asked, already moving on to the rest of his evening and stuffing his pipe. “Token doesn’t know the Creek.”

            “I have reason to believe he does,” Stan said.

            Clyde lit his pipe and said, “That’s a laugh.” He blew out the smoke and sat on a nearby rock. “He’s high up in the court. Parents are extremely influential. He _chose_ to be a cleric, he could’ve easily been, I don’t know, advisor to the elder Princess herself or something.”

            “Did he choose it to study magic?” Stan ventured. “I saw runes on his ledger.”

            “So? We all write with runes.”

            “Not ancient ones,” Stan said. “Not _those.”_

            “So maybe he’s some kind of sorcerer,” Clyde said with a shrug. “So what? That doesn’t mean he knows the Creek. Humans dabble with magic all the time. He’s got the funds such that it might actually work out for him.”

            “Hmm,” was all Stan said in response.

            The three runes were a human protection spell, from the ancient days when the human kingdom had known more of the ways of magic, and the spirits. Whether Feldspar had learned the spell from Token or whether it was the other way round, Stan wasn’t quite sure, but Token’s reaction to Stan’s mention of the Creek meant that the runes were not coincidental. Token had written those _specifically_ over Clyde’s debts. Clyde was a friend of Feldspar’s. Something was understood between the Creek and the cleric… and that something must have had to do, in some way or other, with the Stick of Truth, with the battle for Zaron, with what had happened to Clyde during and after that time. And if that was true, did Token know or sense anything about the Princess, and the dragon?

            “How do you not know him already?” Clyde asked, snapping Stan out of his thoughts. “Aren’t you a knight?”

            “I am,” Stan said. “I may know him, I may not. You keep your secrets and I’ll keep mine. Simply know that I cannot reveal who I am.”

            “Huh,” said Clyde. He blew out a long trail of smoke, then asked, “You must’ve talked to Wendy.”

            “I did.”

            “Well, whoever you are,” Clyde said, “and wherever you’re from, you must be on one hell of a quest. Think you can slay that dragon, or whatever?”

            Stan’s right hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. He drew a breath, and sighed it out. He knew his sword was useless against the dragon disguised as Princess Kenny, but talking to dragonslayers had given him a bit of hope. Somehow, he would prevail. Somehow, he would weaken her, and use that sword to strike the final blow.

            Stan’s weapon was the one that would serve him for life, and as the sword of Larnion’s champion, it was the strongest of its kind in the realm. On the day that Stan returned to slay the dragon, his sword would serve him well, of that he was sure.

            It was yet another promise he had already, if silently, made to Kyle.

* * *

            It did not take long for Stan to forget when his true birthday was. He chose instead, quite nearly from the beginning, to take for his birthday the day that he met Kyle. It was more auspicious a day, he said, for that was the day his life was saved from uncertainty. And it removed Stan all the more from the family that seemed to have rejected and forgotten him.

            When Stan turned eighteen, he had asked Kyle to accompany him to the blacksmith’s for a new sword, and Kyle had agreed right away. Kyle stood back and gave encouraging nods as Stan described to the blacksmith exactly what he wanted, using his current sword and a few others hanging in the lofty shop as reference points. The blacksmith took half of Stan’s total payment up front, then began stoking the forge.

            Stan joined Kyle in the corner of the shop, and as Stan was re-tying his coin bag to his belt, Kyle said, “That was quite a sum. I could have bought it for you, as a gift. It’s your birthday, after all.”

            “That’s all right,” Stan assured him. “Thank you, Kyle, but I’ve been saving all I can for this.” Smiling broadly, he grasped Kyle’s shoulder and said, “This is going to be the one. I’m sure of it.”

            Kyle’s expression lit up immediately. “Stan!” he said “You didn’t tell me that. The one you’ll carry for life? How exciting!”

            Stan nodded eagerly, barely able to contain a peal of proud laughter. “I’ve known it’s been close for a while,” he said. “And I… today feels right.”

            Naming and claiming a sword for life was often a years-long ordeal, and the process was individual for each knight. And while the elven knights could truly take their time, the process was a bit more of the essence to Stan. Still, he had not rushed it. Stan had taken careful consideration with every new blade he wielded, treating each and every one with care, and knew that when the time was right, the world would speak. Stan did not imagine his height would change much more at this point, now that he stood only a hair shorter than Kyle, and he had bonded well with his current weapon, made by the same blacksmith. His next blade was sure to be the one.

            When the blacksmith had finished his work, and Stan hefted the new sword in his hands for the first time, Stan was quite nearly convinced already that he was right. That he would never need another primary weapon, as long as he lived. It was a fine sword, with a blade of tempered elven steel and a crossguard of reinforced iron, copper, and bronze. The weight was similar to the sword Stan had carried previously, and the grip already suited his hands.

            Stan passed off his former sword to Kyle that day, asking, “Could I give this to you? It has served us both well in the years since I became your Captain, and I’d like you to have it.”

            “Are you sure?” Kyle asked, flushed somewhat.

            “Of course,” Stan offered.

            Kyle was speechless for a moment as he accepted Stan’s sword with reverence, and then affixed it to the sash of his robe. Kyle then watched as Stan carefully slid his new sword into its scabbard and fixed it to his own belt. Kyle preferred carrying thinner swords on his person, which more often than not he wore on the belt under his robe so that the council would be none the wiser, but that day he carried Stan’s sword proudly, and Stan was glad for it.

            Kyle linked his arm with Stan’s as they left the blacksmith’s, and the two walked a ways through the town before words came again.

            “I’ve only known knights to accept favours,” Kyle said slyly, “not bestow them.”

            Stan laughed. “Surely a gift from a friend,” he said, “can offset tradition a little?”

            “Yes,” Kyle said gratefully, his tone soft. “I suppose you’re right.” After a pause, he added, “But it’s still _your_ birthday, Stan. What can I give to you?”

            Stan stopped, and turned to look Kyle in the eyes. Stan could have asked for many things, but all would have seemed so out of place, given their stations. The palace elders had been more vocally looking down on their friendship in recent years, and days like this, when Kyle was unaccompanied and had no other duties to speak of, were rare.

            So Stan said, “An afternoon with my dearest friend is the best gift that I could ask for.”

            Kyle’s green eyes widened, and then he smiled, set his hands on Stan’s shoulders, and left a small kiss on Stan’s left cheek, and then his right. “Of course, my friend,” Kyle said. “Anything at all.”

            The two walked together through the town with no particular course in mind; they made it look, for all intents and purposes, like the Captain of the Guard was simply escorting the King on a stroll through the closest settlement to the palace for a routine visit, but when they found themselves in spaces with little or no crowds, Stan and Kyle would talk softly of little thoughts and ideas and memories and hopes for the year ahead. They visited merchant stalls, and when they reached a field toward the town border, Kyle insisted upon purchasing a new horse for Stan from one of the many that were posted for sale there. Stan did not object, and indeed the horse quickly became one of his favorites once he had broken it in.

            Stan carried his new sword for several days until a skirmish at the western border finally presented a cause for him to put it to use. Two rival factions of bandits had been at odds over control of the Midland side of a crossing road that led from the western Midlands into Larnion, and Stan’s troops had reported that it had drastically affected local tradesfolk. With a handful of knights from the palace guard, and the promised backup of the Creek, Stan rode out to the border to negotiate peace between the bandits.

            When the negotiations came instead to blows, Stan placed his trust in his new sword and struck to wound and disarm, but not to kill—in such a fight, any death caused by Larnion’s army could and would be seen as an affront and grounds for a larger battle. And indeed, no one fell that day. Stan’s new sword protected him from a strike that very well could have been dire, and he cut the weapons of two assailants clean in half.

            When both factions of bandits had been soundly defeated, they agreed to a compromise in the form of alternating control over the coveted territory. Stan and his guard made arrangements for routine visits to ensure that the verbal treaty held, and went home to the palace victorious.

            And there was not a doubt in Stan’s mind, now, that this was the sword he was meant to carry for life.

            The following evening, after he had, as usual, stood at ease in the council chamber during a meeting that Kyle had held to debrief the border situation, Stan caught his King’s gaze as he was preparing to leave.

            “My lord, may I have a word?” Stan asked.

            Kyle turned and looked at him, a bit sadly given the mode of address. But there were still council members present, and Stan needed to watch the way he spoke.

            “Of course,” Kyle said quietly. To his council, he announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

            “Let one of us escort you, sire,” a councilwoman offered.

            “No need,” Kyle said. “My knight will escort me. I won’t be long.”

            A few members of the council grumbled, but the word _escort_ had been used, which had presently been serving Kyle well for excuses to sneak away and spend time with Stan. Stan nodded to the council, held his hands behind his back, and dutifully followed Kyle out of the palace and into the gardens.

            Once alone, Stan offered Kyle his right arm, and Kyle took it gratefully. They let their gait slow, and when they had wandered far enough away from the garden entrance, Kyle asked, “What’s this about?”

            “Oh, I…” Stan paused. This was one of the hardest things he had asked for in his life up to that point. He was not someone who asked for favors without having anything to offer in return, but this was Kyle. Stan’s oath as a knight could be seen as his end of this particular request. “I was right,” he said. “This sword, Kyle, it’s the right one.”

            Kyle smiled at Stan, and gave his arm a small tug as they walked, causing Stan to laugh. “Stan, that’s delightful!” Kyle said. “I’m so happy for you!”

            “Thank you,” Stan said modestly, though he could not help smiling as well. “But I have a favor to ask you.”

            Kyle’s cheeks tinted pink for a few seconds. “Yes? Anything, Stan.”

            “You know that I can’t perform magic,” Stan said. “And I’ve no family to offer their witness to the naming ceremony.” Stan stopped, and turned to look Kyle in the eyes. “You are my dearest friend, Kyle. Will you perform the blessing for me?”

            Without hesitation, Kyle pulled Stan in for an embrace. “I would be honored, Stan,” he said. Stan drew Kyle close, returning the embrace, and thanked him.

            They lingered in the garden for a while, making the most of their time together while Kyle avoided his council, and agreed to meet in the forest that night.

            Stan arrived at the appointed spot first, and sounded two bird calls into the depths of the forest. He and Kyle had also agreed that the best ones to bear witness to the ceremony were the Creek. The four of them together were as close a family as they could be, and so in the absence of relatives, Stan was grateful that he could call on friends.

            Feldspar and Thresher arrived without a sound, and both gave Stan a nod that acknowledged the gravity of the evening’s event. Neither of the rogues spoke, allowing for the first words at the ceremony to be spoken by the King.

            When Kyle joined them, time, to Stan, seemed to slow. Kyle was dressed in one of his finest crimson robes, the glow of Larnion’s magic already surrounding him and adding a fine shimmer to the golden embellishments in the crimson silk. When Kyle smiled at him, Stan drew in a small gasp before managing a smile of his own.

            Feldspar set to work casting runes and sigils to the four winds to protect them from being interrupted during the ceremony. To the north and south, Feldspar drew three Elven sigils in the ground; to the east and west, he drew three Human runes. When the casting was complete, a net of light shone overhead for a moment, and the four of them were invisible from the outside world.

            “Thank you, Feldspar,” said Kyle, “and thank you, Thresher, for bearing witness to the ceremony.” Turning to Stan, he continued, “This is an auspicious day for you, and for all of Larnion. Please step forward, present your weapon, and speak your name to the spirits.”

            Stan had only read of naming ceremonies before. In Larnion, many elven knights blessed their own blades, or had a family member or romantic partner perform the ceremony. The latter was rare, but there was enough documentation for Stan to know what to do.

            He stepped forward, drew his sword, and knealt to hold it out to Kyle. To any spirits present, he announced, “My name is Stanley of Larnion.”

            “Please speak your purpose,” Kyle prompted.

            “I have chosen the blade that I will carry for life in service to my kingdom,” Stan said.

            “Let me see it.”

            Stan nodded, and Kyle carefully took up the sword and held it between them, his right hand cradling the grip and his left the blade. Slowly, Kyle’s hands began to radiate a soft, colorless light, and the light then engulfed Stan’s sword, the blade now gleaming with the power of the forest.

            “Sir Stanley,” said Kyle, “have you chosen a name for your blade?”

            “I have,” Stan answered.

            “Then speak it in your mind and in your heart when you receive this sword,” Kyle said, “but do not say its name aloud to anyone.”

            Stan nodded, and Kyle held out the still softly glowing blade. Carefully, Stan took it into his hands, looked into Kyle’s eyes for a heartbeat, then cast his gaze on his chosen sword. He took a breath, and as he exhaled, he willed the sword to hear the only name that Stan felt it needed:

            _The King’s Shield._

            Stan did not know if it was unheard of to call a sword by a protective weapon’s name, but he felt that it was the right fit for this one. That name would tie the sword irrevocably to Stan, aiding in his own promise and guiding him along his chosen path for life. No matter what happened in the future, Stan knew that he would ever and always be his King’s protector.

            The light emanating from the blade receded, signaling that it had accepted its name. Stan stood, held the sword by the hilt again, stepped back to test its agility once through the air, then carefully sheathed it. He bowed to Kyle to customarily end the ceremony, and when he stood back up, Kyle stepped forward, placed his hands on Stan’s shoulders, and gently kissed his forehead.

            “May your blade serve you and guide you for life, my valiant knight,” Kyle said, adding his own blessing now that the ceremony was complete.

            Stan drew and let out a deep breath in reverence and gratitude. “Thank you,” he started to say, “my l—”

            Kyle stopped him by lightly pressing the tip of his right index finger to Stan’s lips. Stan understood, and smiled. The ceremony was over, and they were not in the presence of anyone else from the court.

            “My friend,” Stan corrected gladly.

            Late into the night, after the Creek had returned to the forest and Stan and Kyle had returned to the palace, Stan lay awake, both out of pride and out of concern. He was delighted to have chosen his lifelong weapon, and that it had accepted its name and bond. And he was overjoyed to know that Kyle had been the one to bless Stan’s sword.

            His heart ached, however, with his love for Kyle, which he feared he would never have the chance to speak out loud. Besides, Stan felt guilty for harboring questions that he never dared voice to Kyle. Not even to the Creek. It was his only secret, and his only fear.

            Stan worried and wondered about how his friendship with Kyle might change as they aged. They still looked to be of similar ages when counting human years, but Stan wondered when Kyle’s youth would start to stall. Elves lived so much longer than humans, and indeed some of them aged much more slowly throughout childhood. But not Kyle.

            Most elves did age and learn in childhood and adolescence at the same rate as humans, as seemed to be true for Kyle, but would stop showing signs of aging for quite some time after reaching twenty or thereabout. There was precedence of elves courting and even marrying humans, this was also true, and those that did would be considerate of their more mortal partners, and not take another after losing their love to the threads of time.

            Stan loved Kyle… as a friend, yes, but with the silent wish for more, even knowing this. Selfishly pretending that such a barrier did not exist. Kyle, too, it seemed, would forget about the aging factor; he never mentioned it to or around Stan, at least. Stan sometimes wondered, even, if Kyle would purposely match his aging process to Stan’s in the years to come for the sake of their friendship.

            Stan hated that he had those thoughts, and would always try to will them away and enjoy every moment that he had with his dearest friend. Still, the fear was always in the back of Stan’s mind. He was finally able to calm himself that evening by reminding himself of his oath, and now of his lifelong bond with his sword, named for his own duties.

            Stan was a knight. He was the kingdom’s champion and Captain of the Guard. He was the High King’s most trusted soldier. He would protect his King and his realm until his strength failed him. It was the only life he knew, and he was glad for it.

* * *

            Stan woke to the silence of another morning. He shaved and washed at the basin, and contemplated the map. Three starred towns remaining. Stan also had to consider the length of his ride back to Kyle’s palace, and that cut his time for investigation down even further. One week, three towns. It was possible, but Stan was starting to despair. He needed more and better information soon.

            He ran through what he knew in his head. There were gossips in one of the towns who had heard of Princess Karen’s disappearance, and of Princess Kenny’s previous trades with the warlocks. But gossip was not written fact. The dragonslayers’ advice was the best Stan had found in the past two weeks, but that still did not bring Stan any closer to knowing why the dragon had been sent in the first place.

            One week, three towns.

            Stan readied himself, locked up his room, and went downstairs to the main hall, making for the usual corner table. It was raining, and the entire hall was cast in shadow.

            When he looked up, Stan did not see Clyde sitting across from him, but Feldspar. Unable to hide his shock, Stan gasped. Feldspar was wearing his usual deep blue cloak, complete with a lower face mask that left only his eyes exposed.

            “Good to see you, as well, Sir,” said Feldspar.

            “What are you doing here?” Stan asked. “What’s going on?”

            “Don’t get excited,” Feldspar cautioned. “I come with news, but not from Larnion.”

            “You can’t appear here and not tell me a thing from home,” Stan said, eager for anything at all.

            Feldspar sighed and rolled his eyes. “All is more or less as you left it,” said the rogue. “I passed your message to the King.”

            “And is he well?”

            “As well as he can be, considering,” said Feldspar.

            Stan’s heart skipped. “Yes,” was all he was able to say.

            “And you?” Feldspar asked.

            Stan watched Feldspar until he saw the rogue blink. Kyle had been the one who had first noticed that the false Princess Kenny did not blink, and Stan found himself cautious around anyone hiding their lower face around him now. But Feldspar was most certainly not under enchantment, so Stan answered, “I am making some progress, but not enough.”

            “How’s the ranger?” Feldspar wanted to know.

            “Rather annoying, but then again, he is a friend of yours.”

            “And so are you.”

            Stan sighed. “You said you had news,” he said. “What news, Feldspar of the Creek?”           

            Feldspar leaned in across the table and lowered his mask to speak directly into Stan’s ear as he slipped him a small scrap of parchment.

            “Go to this estate to the south,” Feldspar instructed. “I have word of your sister, Shelley, who is very much alive, and claims residence there.”

            Stan tried not to react verbally, but could not suppress another gasp. Feldspar drew back and raised his mask, covering, Stan noticed at the last second, what looked like a fresh red scar at the corner of his mouth. Feldspar caught him looking and glared at Stan, causing him to look away again, this time down to the scrap in his hand.

            Feldspar set a hand over Stan’s, and shook his head. Not here.

            “I’m running out of time,” Stan said. “How long a ride is this?”

            “It isn’t far,” said Feldspar, keeping his voice down. “I think you’ll be glad you made the trip.”

– – –

            That evening, after another unsuccessful journey to a nearby town, Stan returned again to the tavern. He ate dinner in silence, forgetting that Clyde was there until Stan rose to leave.

            “Woah, hold on,” said Clyde. “What’s the plan? I know that town didn’t yield much, but…”

            “I need to rest and rethink what’s next,” Stan said.

            “The next two towns are a long ride, Marsh,” Clyde noted.

            “I’m aware. I just… need to be wise about this.”

            With that, he retreated upstairs and returned to his room. Stan sighed, washed at the basin, and sat in the darkness for a while, well aware only of how little time he had left before the wedding.

            Gathering himself, Stan lit a candle and rolled out the map onto the floor, striking another line through the village he’d searched that day. Two towns left, and now Feldspar’s secret scrap of parchment. Eagerly, Stan took the scrap from the pouch on his belt and unfurled it in the flickering candlelight. Outside, the rain beat against the tavern walls and roof, and Stan felt his heart speed up as if to race the raindrops.

            Feldspar had mentioned an estate, and on the scrap of parchment there was indeed a crude outline of a fine home sketched out in ink. Beneath the sketch, in Feldspar’s best elven handwriting, were directions from the tavern.

            Stan lay the sketch and directions over his map, following Feldspar’s route. It was not too long a ride, and was on the way toward one of the towns Stan had yet to visit in search of information, which was fortunate. “My sister,” Stan heard himself whisper into the night.

            He’d hardly paid mind to Feldspar’s words until that moment.

            Stan had a sister, and she was alive.

            “My sister,” Stan repeated in disbelief. His relations had not been those of a usual family for the past dozen years. He had never spoken the words _my sister_ aloud in all of Larnion. _My tutor,_ yes. _My friend. My lord._ But not _my sister._

            Stan felt himself smile a little, and he looked down at Feldspar’s little scrap of parchment. Feldspar had said it would be worth the ride, which must have meant that, even if he did not remember her, Stan’s sister must have remembered him.

            Stan covered his mouth, surprised to find himself somewhat excited by the thought. He had long ago forgotten his family, and had wanted to never remember. But yet he now found himself hopeful. Perhaps it was due to his desperation for anything at all that could aid his quest, or perhaps it was due to what Leopold had constantly been saying to Stan before Stan left.

            If Stan had a sister, living and thriving somewhere in the southern kingdom, then Stan most certainly was not _nothing._ He may not have had a past to boast about, but at the very least, he had a sister. Her name, according to Feldspar, was Shelley.

            Cautiously, Stan said aloud one last time, “I have a sister.”

            Was she an informant of Feldspar’s working undercover, Stan wondered, and did Feldspar only recently come by information of her relation to Stan? Or perhaps she worked the land at the estate, and Feldspar had discovered her identity through a trade of sorts. It did not matter. Stan had a sister. She was alive. And she would, more likely than not, be expecting him.

– – –


	8. VIII: Secrets and Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan learns a powerful secret about Clyde, and Kyle learns a powerful secret about his own family.

            Unable to sleep, Stan locked his room and made his way down to the main hall. He ordered a pint of mead from the woman at the bar, and was about to leave when he noticed, “You’re not Wendy.”

            “No,” said the tall woman, who had long, curly black hair, ebony skin, and eyelids painted grey. “Wendy is not here for the night.” _Indeed,_ Stan thought, giving more consideration to Feldspar’s claim that Wendy used the tavern to recruit Valkyrie. “I’m Nichole,” said the new woman. Like Wendy, she wore a green dress too plain for her. Stan recognized her after a moment as one of the trio who usually sat at the bar to speak with their commander. “I’m the keeper for this evening. Should you require anything else, wayfarer, let me know.”

            Despite the word written in ancient Elven above the front door, this was the first time Stan had heard anyone _called_ ‘wayfarer’ inside the tavern. With the word spoken to the air and Wendy out of sight, Stan wondered just what the Valkyrie might be planning. He had six days. He hoped they were not pledging their steel to the false Princess Kenny.

            And then Stan thought about his sister, who existed somewhere to the south. Stan looked around at the bar, then leaned across and asked Nichole, “When you see Wendy, could you tell her that the man in room five no longer needs protection for his name?” Stan’s sister would need to hear it, and speak it, and know him completely. It was a risk, but it was a risk at Feldspar’s urging.

            “Room five?” asked Nichole. “I can lift the protection for you.” She set a hand on his shoulder, and Stan felt a chill. “Will that be all, Sir Stanley?”

            Stan shuddered in awe when the Valkyrie took her hand away. If Feldspar knew Wendy, Stan thought, then the Creek must also have known Wendy’s sisters in arms. Stan held out hope that perhaps he and Kyle could yet call on at least this small faction of Valkyrie should the need arise.

            Stan thanked Nichole and left the bar before he could boil over with questions he was unable to ask, and started toward the fire before he noticed that Clyde was very much awake and seated at his usual corner table. Stan sighed, and made for that table instead. He could very well have started up conversation with anyone else in the tavern, as there were at least ten others awake and around in the hall, but as long as Stan was full of unanswered questions, he might as well speak yet again to the ranger.

            Clyde slumped forward onto the table. Three empty pints and one nearly finished sat on the table beside him. “Please,” he said, “tell me you’re not here to make me ride out at this hour.”

            “Not at all,” Stan said. “We’ve traveled enough for today.”

            Clyde moaned and held his head. He drew in a long breath and let it out, which seemed to sober him up a little, then sat back and lit up his pipe. “Never seen you down here this late,” Clyde said. “Or is it early? Can’t tell with the rain.”

            “It’s late,” Stan said. He took a drink of his mead and glanced around the hall. Others were well engaged in conversation. Two were asleep at their tables.

            Clyde blew a smoke ring to one side. “Same thing tomorrow?” he asked.

            “Somewhat,” Stan said. “I’ve another stop I need to make.”

            “Huh,” was all Clyde said, paying much more attention to his pipe.

            Stan sipped his mead and regarded the ranger for a moment. “You’ve been quite helpful thus far,” he said. “I commend you for that.”

            “Job’s a job,” said Clyde, shrugging one shoulder. “Job for a knight’s even better. Gotta say, Marsh, you do pay up nicely.”

            “I hope you’re actually paying your debts and not spending it all on ale.”

            “Oh, I’ve my own allowance for that,” said Clyde.

            Stan knew he was treading on dangerous territory as he asked, “Why all the vices? You drink, smoke, and… flirt…”

            “And fornicate?” Clyde offered.

            “Ugh. Yes. More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

            “I drink to forget,” said Clyde. “I smoke to relax. I’ll never find love on my own, so I get the physical part of it whenever I can.”

            Stan tapped his fingers on the table. “What are you trying to forget?” he asked.

            “None of your damn business,” said Clyde.

            “Isn’t it? I’ve employed you for a fortnight now.”

            “That’s on you.”

            Stan pressed on: “There’s something I need to ask you.”

            Clyde glared at Stan from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, then blew out a long trail of smoke, snuffed out his pipe, and said, “Right. I figured you’d ask eventually.”

            “And you’d be willing to talk?” Stan asked.

            “Not cheaply,” Clyde said. “I need something from you. You want to know about this, don’t you?” he guessed, pointing at the scars on his face. “You know who I am. _Don’t you?”_ Stan did not confirm or deny the question, at least not aloud. Clyde let out a scoff, making it clear that he had indeed seen this conversation coming. “Were you there?” Clyde asked. “And that’s not all. I need more than that from you if I’m going to talk about this.”

            “I was there,” Stan said as kindly as he could. Clyde’s face paled, and he considered his pipe for a second before lighting it up again.

            “You were a child soldier, like me,” Clyde surmised.

            “Yes. I need to know what happened,” Stan said, now burning with the want to learn. “I am a knight, as you know, and what I have been seeking from the villages on your map is any sort of aid that can help my kingdom once again overpower sinister forces. I need to know my enemy if I am to defeat him, and you are the closest source of information to the west that I have. What do you need from me?”

            Clyde tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air above him. He set the pipe between his teeth, sighed smoke out of his nostrils, and decided, “Your name. And who you serve. I need to know how you marched against me, and if you struck to kill.”

            “I have killed precious few people in my life,” Stan admitted. Clyde stared at him as if the notion were unfathomable. “You were not one that I aimed for. My given name is Stanley, of the court of Larnion. I serve as Captain of the Guard for the High Elf King.”

            The pipe fell from Clyde’s mouth. The ranger was quick to recover and douse it, brushing snuff off of his coat, and then he stared at Stan with eyes so wide that, for the first time since Stan had hired him, Clyde looked closer to his age. Youth seemed to return to the ranger in an instant, as something jogged his memory of being younger still. “That’s your truth?” Clyde asked, with hope in his tone.

            “It is, yes. Why?”

            “So this is how fate finds me,” Clyde said.

            “What do you mean by that?” Stan wondered.

            “I…” The ranger paused, at a complete loss for words for the first time Stan had seen. Clyde looked around the room, cast a nervous look at Stan, and then at his three empty pint glasses, then slid his half empty glass away and tried again, “I… I didn’t realize you… excuse me.”           

            “What?” Stan said, sure he’d said something wrong.

            “Just, hold on,” Clyde said.

            The ranger stumbled to his feet and made his way to the bar, returning less than a minute later with a stein full of nothing but water. He sat, drank down some of it to sober himself up further, then once again gave Stan a cautious look. “You’re from Larnion?” Clyde asked, his voice surprisingly quiet.

            “I am,” Stan confirmed. “Is something wrong?”

            Clyde shook his head. “On the contrary, Marsh—no,” Clyde said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Nope, that feels wrong now.”

            “What?”

            “You’re a knight of Larnion.”

            “Yes. Clyde, what is—”

            “You serve the High King of Larnion.”

            “Of… all the Drow Elves, yes,” Stan said, still shocked at Clyde’s twist in behavior.

            “Sir, then,” Clyde decided, half muttering. “That’s… yeah, that’s better.”

            “Are you well?” Stan asked, getting concerned. Clyde had never been so shaken, not even during the run-in with Token at the hunters’ club.

            “Well enough, Sir,” Clyde said. He took a deep breath, fixed his gaze on Stan again, and said almost remorsefully, “My liege, I had no idea that you came from elven lands. Forgive me.”

            Stan’s breath caught for a second. “What… what’s to be forgiven?” he asked. “Why the sudden change of tone?”

            “Your… your King, your lord…” Clyde sputtered out. “He could have killed me. Were you there, Sir? In those final moments, when I was freed? When I fell, and my own soul returned to me?” There were tears in the ranger’s eyes. “Your King spared my life. Not that mine was much worth saving, but he did it anyway. He had lost his parents and so many soldiers in that battle, and he still spared me.”

            Kyle had admitted much the same to Stan once, ten years ago, even in his time of grief and mourning after the battle. Something tugged at Stan’s heart, and he realized after a moment that it was a sense of pride. Of course Kyle had shown forgiveness. Stan would expect nothing less.

            “I owe your King my life, Sir,” Clyde said. “I need to repay kindness to him, so I will start with you. No need to pay me anymore. I will follow your command as long as you need my assistance. I have hidden out here on the border for far too long. My spared life will be worth nothing if I do nothing with it, and I know now that I was meant to assist you, Sir. This is precisely how fate has found me. I’ll tell you everything you need to know, if you’re once again marching troops west. But I warn, that is one place I would rather not return. I will follow you and your King anywhere but there.”

            “Understood,” Stan said, still somewhat surprised by Clyde’s words.

            “I was told that elves were merciless on the battlefield, that they did not form alliances easily,” Clyde said. “I believed every lie the warlocks fed me. I wished for power and it was beyond anything that I could control. I was not noble, Sir, not like someone such as yourself. I was young, and afraid, and foolish, and starved to be more than what I was. The warlocks make it so easy for a person to think that he can reach for more, and then you find yourself with so much less. I lost what little I had during that ordeal. All that I had left at the end of it was the… the residue.”

            Stan’s mind turned for a second to the daggers he kept concealed in his boots, should he need to make a move. “Residue?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

            “Dark magic can no longer touch me,” said Clyde, leaning further forward over the table to keep his truth hidden. “That is why I hire myself out for those who need protection. It already stained me once so viciously that my body is immune. I’m still a curse in and of myself for letting such terror corrupt me.”

            Stan’s eyes widened and he drew in a gasp. He glanced around the room, but no one was paying mind to their conversation. Stan slid his pint of mead to the side and leaned forward onto the table. “Let me see your hands,” he requested.

            “Sir—” Clyde began to protest.

            “Let me see your hands,” Stan asked again.

            Clyde pressed his lips flat together, let out a breath, then obliged, slowly unraveling the bandage wrapped around his right hand. Under the bandage, Stan saw, Clyde’s skin was rough, charred in red and black, and tattooed on his palm was an ancient human rune. Clyde showed his left palm, and there was marked an elven sigil. Both were dark magic wards that Stan recognized from some of the texts Kyle had shown him in the palace library over the years.

            Clyde quickly wrapped up his hands again, shaking somewhat as he did so. “The Stick of Truth burned me in the final moments I held it,” he said. “Absolutely destroyed my hands. I had those cast to bring back some feeling in them, and it just made my resistance stronger.

            “I was nothing before the warlocks gave me that relic,” Clyde went on, staring down at his hands. “I was less by the time it was through with me. My soul was not my own when I held it. You have to believe me, Sir. I want to atone for what I did.”

            “I believe you,” Stan said. “And you’ve provided good assistance thus far. If you continue to help me on my quest, I’m certain my King will be more than grateful.”

            Clyde sighed and slumped back in his seat. He removed his hat and tried to tame back his unkempt hair. “Can you be so sure?” Clyde asked. He turned his face toward Stan, making his scars all the more pronounced in the dim light of the lantern on the wall. “Your King spared me, Sir, but I have done so little with my life.”

            “Nonsense. You said it yourself, you hire yourself out to protect others. That’s a worthy enough cause.”

            “But in the eyes of a King?”

            Stan smiled. “My King is a very just and kind man,” Stan said. “Continue to help me, and I assure you, you will have his gratitude.”

            “You must know him well, huh?” Clyde asked. He started to pick up his pipe again, then hesitated and set it back down.

            “Oh, yes,” Stan said. “He’s my dearest friend, and my…”

            Stan stopped himself, and hoped Clyde hadn’t noticed. But of course Clyde had. Stan had gotten carried away, longing to so much as _speak of_ Kyle after those lonely two weeks, and had accidentally begun speaking his desires as well as his truth.

            “Oh, _is he,_ now?” Clyde asked, raising his eyebrows. Stan cleared his throat, unable to think of anything to say. Clyde laughed, hesitated a moment longer, then gave in and lit up his pipe one more time. “Now, this is interesting.”

            “You mustn’t repeat what you think you know,” Stan cautioned.

            “Not a word, Sir, I’m under your command,” Clyde said, and Stan knew he meant it. “But, _whew,_ you are one of those court romantics the stories write on, aren’t you? You’re straight out of a bard’s song.”

            “Quiet,” Stan muttered. He slid his mead back toward himself and took a drink.

            “How in every hell did you fall in with the Creek?” Clyde wanted to know. “The Captain of the Guard, and the King’s _lover,_ no less—”

            “Shut—I’m not,” Stan refuted. “I’m not… we’ve never… never mind. We’re close. That’s all. And as far as the Creek are concerned, that’s yet another story. But do _not…_ you mustn’t repeat a _word…”_

            “Don’t worry a thing about me, Sir,” Clyde said, with smoke spilling from his mouth. He grinned. “This may actually make my life debt easier to achieve, owing my allegiance to you and your King both for what he did ten years ago.”

            “Yes,” Stan said, “well. I’m glad to have you in my service.”

            At that point, the door to the tavern opened and closed, and three Valkyrie, Wendy not among them, strode in and up to the bar. Their too plain clothes were drenched from the rain, and they sat at the counter and exchanged words with Nichole.

            “Ah, there they are again,” Clyde noticed, grinning in the direction of the Valkyrie at the bar.

            “Does that group,” Stan wondered, “come here often?”

            “Sure do,” Clyde said. “Every night for a year or so, now. Love the view. Too bad I’ll never be able to win myself a lady. Not with a face like this.”

            “Use your power for noble purposes,” said Stan, “and I’m sure even a Valkyrie would look past your scars.”

            Clyde laughed. “That’s a nice dream,” he said. But what Clyde did not notice, Stan did: the tall blonde woman cast a look back at their table, returning to Clyde the same curious glance he would often pass to her when her back was turned.

* * *

            His father’s crown was heavy on his head when Kyle marched west with his army to end the battle against the Demon King. Kyle insisted upon walking the entire way, staff in one hand and Stan by his side. His mother’s heirloom ring was yet too big for him to wear on his hand, so Kyle kept it on a chain around his neck, close to his heart.

            They were children, entering the battlefield, but from what Kyle had heard in frequent reports, the vessel for the Demon King was a child as well. Perhaps Kyle could succeed where the adults had failed, time and time again: perhaps the Demon King could be destroyed not by spear or axe or flame, but by conversation with the unstable child who had foolishly accepted the Stick of Truth from a warlock.

            When he arrived with his army to the field of battle, Kyle could smell the destruction. The burned metal, and leather, and skin. He could hear echoes of the pain caused in this place for weeks upon weeks of unceasing war. Zaron’s threads of magic were fractured here. Power was not respected in the realm of the warlocks. It was only taken.

            The grounds in the west were barren and charred, the air hot and heavy. High above them stood the rocky summit from which the Demon King was controlling his army—a massive regiment of the undead. His soldiers lined the battlefield before them, and now there was no going back.

            Kyle’s army was not alone; Princess Kenny and her parents led factions of knights and paladins from the south, and the northern elves had even sent a number of their best soldiers at Kyle’s request. But there was no question that it was Kyle alone leading everyone in this battle.

            He did not want to be responsible for any more destruction.

            He turned to address his gathered allies, and proclaimed, “We shall end this fight today. We have all known enough of suffering, and of death, and of pain. Hold back this army. Fight for the future of Zaron. I will seek out the Demon King myself, and I will pry the Stick of Truth from his hands by any means necessary. Fight now, with all you can. We will prevail.”

            The Captain of the Guard, the man who had held the position since before Kyle’s father’s time, gave his own orders, then, to Larnion’s army and to the allied soldiers. And that was when reality came crashing down around Kyle, and fear overtook him for a moment.

            The knights rushed forth with their orders to battle the legions of the undead, but Kyle grabbed Stan’s shoulder before he could join the fray. “Wait,” Kyle pleaded.

            “I need to fight, Kyle,” Stan said.

            Tears pooled in Kyle’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Kyle said. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. I don’t want you to get hurt, Stan. I can’t lose you, too.”

            “I’ll be all right,” Stan promised.

            “You don't know that!” Kyle cried. “Please, go home. Be safe.”

            Stan paused. He looked out at the battlefield, and then back to Kyle. “Is that an order?” he asked, almost meekly.

            Kyle blinked out his tears, and said a wavering, “No.”

            “Then I will fight for you,” Stan said. “And I will not fall.”

            Kyle nodded.

            “And when all of this is over, I will find you.”

            “Promise?”

            “I promise.”

            Kyle pulled Stan close for an embrace, and then the two parted—Stan to the field of battle, and Kyle to the Demon King’s summit.

            And the only ones Kyle trusted to get him there safely were the Creek. Feldspar and Thresher had only very recently pledged their service to Kyle, but Kyle knew who to trust. The rogues were masters of stealth and illusion, and they kept him hidden and safe on his trek to the summit, already succeeding where others had failed.

            Kyle could feel himself burning. With rage, and with grief, and with anger, and with his last shreds of hope that all may yet be well. His hand tightened around his staff, and he strode forward. He walked accompanied by the Creek until he had reached the top of the barren, rocky cliff from where the Demon King was commanding his army, but as soon as they reached the top, Kyle ordered his rogues to stay behind.

            Drowning out the sounds of war below, Kyle moved steadily and cautiously on, until he caught a glimpse of the Demon King’s vessel. His back was turned to Kyle, and despite his sharp armor, the boy did not appear threatening. He really was only a child.

            “What have you done?” Kyle asked.

            The boy turned, and there was no human light in his eyes. No, his eyes were pure red and empty, those of the Demon King, keen to watch only destruction. “I have conquered,” the Demon King answered. Through the mouth of the child, the beast spoke, with a voice deep and hollow as an endless cave. In the boy’s hands was the ancient human relic, the Stick of Truth, gleaming gold in the burning sun.

            “I’m not talking to you,” Kyle snapped at the Demon King.

            “There is only me,” said the Demon King. “There is only my destruction.”

            “No,” Kyle said firmly. He was shaking, but refused to let his terror show. He felt the weight of his father’s crown on his head, his mother’s ring around his neck, and silently prayed for their help and guidance. “No, I don’t believe that.”

            “And who are _you?”_ the Demon King commanded.

            Kyle drew a deep breath. “I am Kyle,” he said, “King of Larnion, and High King of the Drow Elves.”

            “You are a child.”

            “So are you,” Kyle said. “Tell me your name.”

            “I have no name.”

            “Tell me your name!”

            The Demon King did not answer, and Kyle knew that the vessel, somehow, was listening. “I’m going to help you,” Kyle said to the boy. “But you need to let go of the Stick.”

            The Demon King’s empty red eyes narrowed, and the boy lunged at Kyle, Stick of Truth raised and sparking to attack. Kyle yelped and feinted to one side, then turned and managed to block the Demon’s strike with his staff. Kyle had had no formal training for war, but his staff promised the protection of his ancestors, and he moved on instinct, wanting only to survive and end this battle once and for all.

            When he had an opening, Kyle summoned a ball of flame and shot it at the Demon King’s vessel, aiming to harm but not to kill. The Stick of Truth absorbed most of the flame, but even the ancient relic could not completely withstand the power of conjured fire, and on Kyle’s next summoned attack, the Stick burst into flame.

            The Demon King let out a howl, and mixed with it was a human cry of pain.

            “Tell me your name!” Kyle shouted at the vessel again.

            The boy shook his head and closed his eyes, still gripping the Stick of Truth in both hands at the Demon’s will. Where the boy held the staff, his skin had burned and gone raw, but the Demon King refused to let go. Should he hold it any longer, Kyle thought, it would burn the child down to the bone.

            “You need to let go of the Stick!” Kyle shouted. “It’s killing you. Don’t give into it.”

            The vessel’s eyes shot open, and were human for an instant before once again turning a hollow, demonic red. He rushed at Kyle again, and his next strike threw Kyle to the side. Kyle fell, but held onto his staff, and turned onto his back and made it to his feet before the Demon King could bring the blazing Stick down upon him.

            Kyle drew a deep breath and shot another burst of flame at the Demon, silently asking his mother’s spirit to help him guide his strike.

            The flame burned bright and lapped at the vessel’s hands. This time, when he cried out, the child’s own voice was more pronounced than the Demon King’s, and Kyle took that moment to spin out his staff and knock the Stick of Truth out of the child’s hands.

            The moment the Stick hit the ground, Kyle hurled one last bolt of flame at the relic and watched it burn to cinders.

            _“No!”_ the Demon King protested.

            Kyle struck the Demon’s vessel across the face with one end of his staff, and when the child hit the ground, Kyle called out, “Let go! Stop giving into the Demon. Tell me your name. I don’t want to kill you. I can help you. But you need to let go.”

            The child seemed to listen for a moment, but then the Demon King again took control, forcing his vessel onto his feet.

            “So be it,” Kyle said. “I’ll do it myself.”

            If he couldn’t completely get through to the child, Kyle would need to force the Demon King out and banish the terror by other means.

            Kyle had been born with the power the elven forests had granted to all in his father’s royal line—the ability to weave protection against evil, the ability to banish it. The ability to harness the forces of nature. In becoming King, it was Kyle’s inherent duty to keep the peace that burned inside him. He could destroy, if only to cleanse. He could rend, if only to fix. He was nine years old, and did not know what to do with that power, but he knew that he had to try. To listen to the earth, even in the desolate land of the warlocks, and find the threads of light that pierced the darkness.

            He held his staff over his head, concentrating on the pulse of the earth, looking through eyes so accustomed to the Sight for the threads that would weave a tapestry that could restore the balance of nature, and then brought the staff down with both hands, jabbing the base of it into the rocky ground.

            Light burst forth from the staff, and while Kyle held his ground, the Demon King’s vessel fell. Kyle watched as a great grey cloud escaped from the boy; the amorphous demon reached out to return to its physical form, ripping deep cuts into the child’s face with its last remaining strength, but the pulse from Kyle’s heirloom staff proved stronger. Without a thing to cling onto, and with the Stick burned to ash, the Demon returned to dust.

            And the child began to cry.

            “Who are you?” Kyle demanded, speaking the humans’ language. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Look at me.”

            The boy slowly picked himself up, staggering against the pain of his fresh wounds, and managed to sit on his knees, still a few feet away from Kyle. The boy’s forearms and hands were badly scorched, and his face bloody and raw. He looked as though he wanted to collapse, or to give up on life entirely.

            “Answer me,” Kyle ordered. “What is your name?”

            “Clyde,” the boy answered.

            “Why did you accept the Stick, Clyde? Did you know that it was cursed?”

            Clyde bowed and shook his head. He brought up his hands to cover his face, and then stopped, and lowered them again, blood dripping from the fresh cuts on his cheeks and onto his ruined palms. “I wanted power,” Clyde said, his voice small and hoarse.

            “Why?”

            “I wanted… I wanted to achieve something great.”

            “You are a child,” Kyle said, tears burning in his eyes. “You don’t know what greatness is. And even if you did, you would have had time to become something. What made you accept the Stick? Why did you willingly trade your soul?”

            Clyde bowed further and let out a long cry. “Because I was weak,” he admitted. “I was nobody. I had nothing. I had lost everything. I was promised so much.”

            “And instead, there has only been more loss,” Kyle cut in. “You invited destruction into the realms. You have torn apart families. You have altered lives.”

            “I’m _sorry,”_ Clyde cried. And from the terror and pain in his voice, Kyle knew that Clyde meant it. Kyle said nothing more, and let the misguided boy cry for a moment longer. Clyde really was a child—one driven by anger and fear, one weak and desperate enough to accept a warlock’s curse upon him. Kyle could not punish someone for having been used. And Kyle most certainly could not kill a sobbing child no older than himself, who had admitted the error of his ways.

            “Stand up,” Kyle commanded. After a rough try, Clyde did. “Do you have a home to go back to?” Kyle asked.

            Clyde hesitated, then said, “No, your highness.”

            “Then find one,” Kyle said. He pointed his left index finger east, arm fully outstretched. “Go. Get out of here. Make a better life. Learn how to help others. That will make you feel less weak. Live, but do not ever, _ever_ forget what you have done.”

            Clyde lifted his head and gasped. “You’re… you’re not going to execute me?”

            Kyle shuddered at the word _execute._ “No.”

            “You’re not going to punish me?”

            “If your accepting the Stick was a cry for help, then the best thing you can do is help yourself and try to help others,” Kyle said. “You did not know what kind of power you held. You made a rash and stupid decision. You tore lives apart. But you were the vessel for the cause of destruction and not the source, so I refuse to kill you here. Do something with your life. Cherish it. _Leave.”_

Clyde stared at Kyle with wide eyes, half terrified and half grateful. He bowed, choked out a sob, then slowly brushed himself off, cast one more look around at the Demon King’s devastation, and ran.

            Kyle dropped to his knees, and bent over his staff, pressing his forehead to the polished wood. He had not been meant to wield that staff for at least another six years, but he also had not anticipated wearing that crown for several years more; decades, even. Kyle took a few deep breaths, echoes from the battlefield still drumming in his ears.

            Footsteps sounded behind him—several heavy strides, and one smaller, more familiar pace. Kyle placed his staff on the ground as Stan walked forward and knealt in front of him. “Is it over?” Stan asked.

            “It’s over,” Kyle answered, his voice all but gone. “The Demon King is vanquished.”

            Stan set his hands on Kyle’s arms, and Kyle slumped forward, resting his head on Stan’s shoulder. “I’m here,” Stan assured him. “Can you stand? We can go home.”

            Kyle blinked out a couple of tears. “No,” he whispered. “No… we can’t. It’s all changed, Stan. It’s all wrong.”

            Stan shifted so that he could hug Kyle. Keeping a tight grip, Stan said, “We’ll find a way, Kyle. If home is altered, I’ll help you make a new one.”

            Kyle began crying harder. “Promise?” he asked.

            “I promise.”

* * *

            Kyle woke in the dark, with the moon still overhead. He rose silently from his bed and pulled on his deep green evening robe. Bare feet treading lightly on the floor, Kyle walked to the window, drew back the curtains, rested his hands on the cool surface of the old oak desk in front of the windowsill, and stared up at the stars.

            He drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

            He had neglected so much. He had been so focused on the naïvete of his council, of the unsettling glances from the Princess and her paladin, of the hole in his heart that would only mend when he saw Stan again, that he had not truly looked at the world in a while.

            If somehow dark magic had crept into his kingdom by way of the Princess and her court, Kyle could not stop it singlehandedly, but he could still take measures against it.

            Kyle looked past and through and around the trees and under the blanket of stars to find the threads of magic woven by the forest. Shimmering fibers appeared in their usual places… but some were frayed. Kyle gasped, closed his curtains, and sat back against the desk.

            His intuition was correct. He had no proof, nothing to show the Princess’s entirely human, Sightless council to prove that something was amiss, but he had validation for himself. Stan must have seen it, too. Stan must have seen it, and been caught.

            Kyle looked toward his door, but not another soul stirred in the palace. He did not wish to continue with the day. He did not wish for the Princess to touch his hand with her frigid fingers anymore, he did not wish for her paladin to glare at him with the intensity of a lightning storm.

            He had spent so much energy trying to push back against his council and increase his knowledge of how to fight dark magic that he had neglected to defend himself in the immediate.

            Kyle’s eyes narrowed in the dark, and he reached out his left hand. He drew in a deep breath, relaxed his thoughts, and twitched his fingers, plucking at the threads of magic in the air. He closed his eyes, and asked the forest to protect him.

            Now was not the time to create a complete ward, now was not the time for spells to truly cast out evil, not without understanding the source of whatever had frayed the fabric of the forest. But Kyle could at least weave a small spell that would keep dark magic at a far enough distance from him so that he could be sure.

            As it always did when Kyle performed magic, fire burned inside him. He kept it calm, kept himself at peace for the time being. Soon, he told himself. Soon, he could ignite.

            Growing up, Kyle had hated his tutors for forcing him to keep his flame at nothing but embers. His mother was a wildfire, he had argued. His mother was the most powerful flame sorceress the kingdom had ever known. Why should he have to hide?

            But to keep peace, he had to remain at most times subdued. He understood, as he got older. To rule by flame alone could be a basis for unrest. To use it strategically was the mark of a good and just King.

            _Stoke your flame._

            Kyle’s full power had not been needed, had not been witnessed in Larnion for years. He could not be hasty. He was already sure that many citizens of Larnion were more than skeptical of Kyle’s engagement to the Princess. He could not betray any more of their trust by unwittingly starting a war.

            But time was closing in. Stan had not yet returned. Both councils were making preparations.

            Angrily, Kyle sat at his desk and selected from a stack on it one of the books he’d taken from the library on advanced flame enchantments. Kyle was, first and foremost, a summoner. The strongest enchantment he’d ever woven was the blessing onto Stan’s chosen sword, and even then, it was not an enchantment of flame.

            Kyle cast another glance toward the door, then pulled out a dagger that he kept hidden in his desk, and set it down in front of him. He drew a deep breath, and stared down at the small blade. He consulted the book once, then closed it, set it aside, then picked up the dagger and rose.

            He twirled out the weapon in one hand, whispered the enchantment he’d memorized under his breath, then held out the small blade. As beckoned, it caught ablaze.

            Kyle let out a small laugh in spite of himself, then cupped his free hand over his mouth and cut his momentary bond with the weapon, snuffing out the magical fire. When no one came after the source of the brief burst of sound, Kyle looked back at the dagger and touched his fingertips to the blade, finding that it was cool to the touch, as if the flames had never been there.

            His spirits raised somewhat as his first thought was going to Stan to excitedly report that he had learned a new and powerful enchantment, but then his heart sank when he remembered that Stan was nowhere near the palace.

            Kyle sighed, and kept the dagger in his hands as he walked back to his bed and sat on the edge of it. He then looked up at the sword he had had mounted on his wall for nearly two years now. The sword Stan had carried in the years before choosing the one he would carry for life. Kyle’s constant reminder of Stan’s friendship and promise of protection.

            There was so much Kyle wanted to say to Stan. Beginning with the words he whispered out into the night: “Come home safely. Please.”

* * *

            When Kyle was sixteen, he accidentally lit a ballroom on fire.

            And it was because he was trying to impress someone.

            His council had decided—because what would advisors be without advising things that Kyle couldn’t get out of?—that the court of Larnion should host a ball for Kyle’s sixteenth birthday. All Kyle wanted to do was go hunting with Stan and the Creek, but the standards of nobility held that he should probably do what the council wanted instead.

            Naturally, Kyle complained to Stan about it every step of the way, but a part of Kyle was excited about the idea. The council had been trying to arrange meetings between Kyle and a few potential partners from noble families throughout Larnion, and the ball would offer invitations to others from their allies to the north and south as well. Thus, Kyle thought, he could get all of this courting nonsense over at once. And steal a dance with Stan.

            When the day arrived, it was part of Stan’s duty to greet the guests and welcome them to the palace, while Kyle sat in a chamber down the hall from the grand ballroom, fretting about too many things. He was thinking, of course, about all the ways the evening could go wrong, and there was a small fear that he felt regarding the many nobles’ sons and daughters who would be present that evening. Suppose Kyle actually _did_ make a connection with one of them? He didn’t want to. He was quite happy quietly adoring Stan. Kyle didn’t want the fuss of writing letters and making calls. Not when the person he loved was so close by.

            A light knock on the open doorframe snapped Kyle out of his thoughts, and there Stan stood, framed by the soft light of the torches flickering in the hallway. Kyle drew in a small gasp and hoped that his blush was not obvious. There was simply no one else in Zaron who could lift Kyle’s spirit like Stan.

            “They’re ready for you,” Stan said.

            Kyle centered himself and stood. “Yes, all right,” he said, walking over to Stan. “Time to get this over with.”

            “You never know,” Stan said as he offered his arm. “You could have fun.”

            “Or it could be a disaster,” Kyle said. He took hold of Stan’s arm, and wished the evening could just end there. But he let Stan lead him to the ballroom, and took a deep breath when they had reached the doors.

            Before they could enter, Stan looked at him and said, “Happy birthday, Kyle.”

            Kyle smiled, and told himself that now he could be content with whatever else happened throughout the night.

            Kyle was announced as he entered the room, and a few proclamations were made, but ultimately he wandered throughout the ballroom alone, at his council’s coaching, striking up small conversations with the young men and women gathered for the event. It was a marvelous event, Kyle had to grant the council that. He didn’t hate the music, and it was nice to, for once, see one of the largest rooms in the palace lit up and full of life, full of people from throughout his kingdom and allied lands enjoying themselves. Plus, politics were a generally frowned-upon topic of conversation at formal balls, so Kyle’s discussions with others veered more on the side of magic and favored activities.

            He obliged a few of the young nobles with a dance, but during each of them, Kyle tried to catch sight of Stan. If nothing else, Kyle at least wanted Stan to approve of whomever else Kyle danced with. Stan nodded encouragingly when he could; at other times, Stan, too, was engaged in a dance, as was expected of the higher-ranking knights. Which only made Kyle think more on how ridiculous it was that knights were not considered nobility simply due to birthright and the lack of significant land ownership. It was absurd, Kyle thought, that while such things separated knights from nobility, the council would still laud the knights for their ‘higher calling’ in service to the kingdom. Hypocrisy, really, Kyle thought.

            Further into the night’s festivities, Kyle stood to the side of the room, watching the others enjoying themselves, when he saw that Stan had accepted the offer of a dance from a young elven lord from the southern regions of Larnion. The young man was handsome, too, with blonde hair and kind brown eyes, and Kyle felt jealousy clinch his chest. Stan was just being polite, wasn’t he?

            But Stan was such a good dancer, and he seemed to be having fun, and Kyle glanced around trying not to notice. He could easily find someone else to dance with and try to clear his head, but he kept looking back at Stan. And then Stan was looking back at Kyle. And walking the elven lord over to Kyle.

            There were introductions, but Kyle did not catch the young lord’s name. Though he did register the young man saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, your highness.”

            “Yes, I’m sure,” said Kyle.

            “Sire…” Stan tried to warn.

            “Right, yes,” Kyle said, “I’m forgetting myself. What did you want, again?”

            “If it isn’t too much to ask, your highness,” said the young lord, “I’d be honored if you would oblige me with a dance.”

            “Oh.”

            Kyle looked at Stan, who sort of flushed and shrugged.

            “Very well,” Kyle agreed, holding out a hand.

            “Really?”

            “Yes. Lead on. What was your name again?”

            The young lord told him, but Kyle did not really care. He listened and said the occasional, “Oh, how nice,” to the young lord’s stories of where he was from, the fact that he was the son of an earl or something, and the fact that he was a sorcerer.

            “What was that?” Kyle asked on the last point.

            “Oh, yes, my entire family are highly skilled magic weavers,” said the young lord. The dance ended, and Kyle let the lord lead him back to where Stan still stood at one side of the room, near the large windows overlooking the palace gardens.

            “Are they, now?” asked Kyle. “Elemental?”

            “Light, mostly.”

            Kyle may have laughed too obviously. _“Light?”_ he said. “Any sorcerer worth his salt can conjure light. Impress me.”

            “What?”

            And Stan tried to interject, “My lord, perhaps now isn’t the best—”

            “No,” Kyle said, standing back and smugly folding his arms. “I would be more than delighted to see what you can do,” he said to his latest dancing partner.

            The young lord flushed somewhat, and obliged, “Very well, then.”

            He stepped back and held out his right hand, palm up, and it immediately began to give off a soft glow. He clenched his hand into a fist, and when he unfurled his fingers again, an orb of light appeared above his palm. As the young lord ticked his fingers in at different points, the orb took on various shapes of things from the natural world.

            “Hmm,” Kyle said, not wanting to admit that he was, in fact, impressed.

            Stan did, however. “You have incredible mastery of your craft, my lord,” he said to the newcomer.

            Kyle was immediately no longer impressed. “It isn’t bad,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.

            “Thank you, sire,” said the young lord, ending his conjures. “I have heard that you are an impeccable flame summoner, yourself.”

            “Indeed I am,” Kyle boasted, and held out his left hand, palm up, to prove his point.

            “Um, sire,” Stan tried.

            “No, no, if our guest wishes to see what I can do, then I’m happy to show it,” Kyle said.

            “Yes,” said Stan, “but perhaps not so close to the curtains—”

            But he’d spoken too late, and Kyle had already sparked a flame in his upturned hand.

            “Oops,” Kyle heard himself say.

            The curtain beside them caught fire quickly, as did the one next to it… and the one next to that. Sorcerers from throughout Kyle’s court quickly rushed in to begin putting out the flames as they spread, while Kyle simply stared in awe until he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.

            “Come on,” Stan said from behind him. Stan turned Kyle away from the spreading damage and rushed him out of the room, wrapping his own cloak around Kyle’s shoulders for added protection. Kyle glanced back to make sure no one had been harmed, then pressed into Stan’s side and let him lead him out of the ballroom and back down the nearest hall.

            When they had reached a safe distance, Stan turned Kyle to face him and asked, “Are you all right?”

            “I’m… yes, I am, but I…” Kyle’s eyes shot open wide. “Stan, I just did the _worst thing imaginable.”_

            “Kyle, it’s all right,” Stan said. “Your council is handling the situation and no one was harmed.”

            “I set the room on fire.”

            “Well… yes, Kyle, you did, but…”

            _“I set the room on fire.”_

            “Erm…”

            Kyle paused, glanced back at the ballroom, then back at Stan, and then leaned forward, rested his head on Stan’s shoulder, and started laughing.

            “Kyle?” Stan asked.

            Carefully, Kyle stood back, trying to suppress his nervous laughter. “I can’t believe I did that,” he said, shaking his head. “And of all things, to hold one over on some son of an earl.”

            Stan smiled, brushed a hand against Kyle’s cheek to make sure he was all right, then coaxed Kyle to sit down with him, with their backs to the wall.

            “Hold one over on him, Kyle?” Stan asked.

            “So maybe I’ve a bit of a temper,” Kyle admitted over-dramatically.

            “You don’t say.”

            “Send out the town criers with the news.”

            “I thought… I thought you were getting on with him,” Stan admitted.

            “Getting on with him?” Kyle said. “Oh, Stan, no, I was _so irritated_ by him!”

            “Really?”

            “I swear to the stars!”

            “Goodness, that’s a relief,” Stan said, his eyes softening and a smile appearing on his face.

            Kyle flushed. “Is that so?”

            “Oh, yes. Much better that you light your palace on fire for someone you dislike than someone you were hoping to court.”

            “Stan!” Kyle gave Stan’s shoulder a gentle shove, and Stan started laughing.

            Stan covered his mouth, but couldn’t help himself, and only started laughing harder the more flustered Kyle became.

            _“What?”_ Kyle wanted to know.

            “I… looking back on it, Kyle, it _was hilarious,”_ Stan pointed out when he could find a break in his laughter. “You could have told the council you didn’t want a ball, but you went the extra measure and burned the place down.”

            “I did not burn it down!” Kyle protested, starting to laugh again as well. “I may have gotten overzealous and let a curtain catch flame, is all.”

            “Overzealous?”

            “It _was_ funny,” Kyle said. After they had shared a bit more laughter, Kyle admitted, “I thought _you_ were getting on with him.”

            “Me?” said Stan. “Oh, no.” He laughed again. “It’s… rather my job to be polite and entertain our guests, Kyle.”

            “Oh. Right. Right, of course.”

            And then Stan added, “He wasn’t my type, anyway.”

            Kyle flushed again. “Stan?” he asked.

            “Yes?”

            “Do you prefer men, too?”

            “I should have thought it was obvious,” Stan said.

            “Oh! Oh, Stan, I’m sorry if I…”

            Stan smiled. “No harm done, Kyle. No need to be flustered. Though it _has_ been quite an evening.”

            “One for the history books,” Kyle agreed with another laugh.

            The two were called back into the ballroom, then, only to let the others know that the King was all right, and for Kyle to thank everyone for coming and to express his regrets for the night cutting short. Needless to say, Kyle did not make any connections of the courting sort that evening, as his council had hoped. But he had been able to share a moment alone with Stan, which was all, really, that either of the two could ask for.

* * *

            Kyle began to miss the days of simply being annoyed by his council, rather than practically afraid of them. Their advice as of late was for little more than complacency with the Princess’s every whim. Yes, the Princess had the ability to charm—but this much? This much was unfathomable.

            In addition to the Princess’s own increasingly obvious treachery, she now had Kyle’s council in the palm of her hand. The worst of it was, the change happened so gradually that Kyle himself could barely see it happening. His council had always been stubborn and dismissive, yes. But lately, Kyle could barely get a word in during the meetings which were occuring now every second day.

            The fact that there had been enough days since Stan had left for Kyle to even notice this pattern practically unraveled his spirit, but Kyle persisted. His own stubbornness and anger was beginning to show around his council, but they barely seemed to respond.

            Worse yet, Kyle was sure that to his council, they were still doing what they thought was the right thing. They carried on as they always had, barely changing their individual attitudes toward him in private conversation. But as a whole, those who usually dissented were stone silent, and those who had always been more vocal threw in too many praises to the Princess for Kyle’s comfort.

            “It’s been some time,” one councilman said at one such meeting, “since you’ve had a fitting for new robes, sire. We’ll schedule one for tomorrow after midday.”

            “I don’t need new robes,” Kyle argued.

            The Princess, seated beside him, shifted her gaze between him and the councilman who had spoken. Kyle shifted in his seat, trying to create more distance between himself and the Princess. She was practically emanating an aura of cold, now, in addition to her touch and her stare. Kyle was beginning to suspect she may even have been not just undead but a lich.

            “Of course you do,” said the Princess.

            “Of course you do,” the councilman echoed hardly a second after the Princess had spoken. “The wedding is soon to come, and you’ll need proper attire.”

            Kyle paused, and glared at the man.

            “Sire?” the councilman asked.

            “Are you… did you not notice what you did?” Kyle asked.

            “When, sire?”

            “Just now,” Kyle pointed out. “The Princess is speaking words for you.”

            “The Princess is very lovely,” said the councilman, “and has wisdom beyond her years besides. I should be honored to share even a fraction of her ideas.”

            Kyle suppressed a shiver and pounded one hand on the arm of his chair. “What are you _saying?”_ he snapped. “Are you hearing yourself?”

            A councilwoman looked up and said, “You do need ceremonial robes, sire.”

            “I’m not talking about that!”

            Silence hung over the room.

            Clearly, talk would get Kyle nowhere. He could most likely still stall and speak with his council members outside of the meeting rooms, when the Princess was not present, and as much of a chore as that would be, Kyle made note to try it. Especially of those precious few members of his council who had tried to go against the majority in the past. Kyle at least needed to try to get through to them. And in the meantime, unfortunately, try to play along, if only so that meetings would not take forever.

            Kyle also had to be grateful that he had, at least, managed to sneak his own clause into the marriage announcement, giving him a way out. He doubted he could get so far now.

            “All right,” Kyle relented, leaning back in his seat. “Very well. New robes. That’s understandable.”

            And then the Princess spoke: “Would you oblige me, my King, in selecting white?”

            Kyle tried not to show his discomfort. “The color of bones should not be worn without others to offset it,” he said. “Otherwise the spirits consider it an ill wish.”

            “In my kingdom it’s quite the contrary,” said the Princess. “It’s a new beginning.”

            _As is death,_ Kyle thought but did not say. He glared at his council pleadingly, as if to get just one thing through to them before it was too late.

            But one councilwoman said, “Sire, isn’t it interesting to be bringing a few human customs into the court?”

            “Since when does that concern you?” Kyle asked before he could stop himself. “Besides, we do honor human customs in Larnion; we always have, since the first human settlers. But this is going too far. This is ignoring our own.”

            “Give it some thought,” said the Princess, hollowly.

            “We only ask that you give it some thought, my lord,” the councilwoman echoed.

            “This is,” said the Princess, “a marriage of diplomacy after all.”

            “We must be diplomatic about this, sire,” the councilwoman said.

            “Are we done?” Kyle said quickly. “I need… I need to take a walk.”

            He knew he saw the Princess nod before his council agreed that the meeting could adjourn. Kyle took one last glance at the Princess before he left, and of course she gave no response but a sharp, cold stare.

            Kyle hurried away from the council chamber before he could be followed. Before he could think about where he was going, he found himself starting for the knights’ quarters.

            It had become routine, now. In place of Stan making his usual rounds to check in on the guard and the state of the palace, Kyle had begun making daily trips to the knights’ quarters, where he had become accustomed to being greeted by the same soldiers at their posts at various times of the day. Kyle nodded to the guard on duty at the end of the hall that afternoon, and she gave a solemn, understanding bow of her head back. Still no sign of Stan.

            Even so, Kyle paused in front of the door to Stan’s chambers and knocked lightly. He tried the door and found it, still, locked. He pressed his back to the fine, polished wooden door and waited a few breaths, then sighed and continued on.

            Rather than return to the palace proper, Kyle left through the back doors, which faced north. Two paths led away from the palace there—one long and winding that continued up a hill to the barracks that housed most of Larnion’s soldiers, as well as the pages’ and squires’ schoolroom and boarding house. Stan’s first home. Kyle managed a smile in that direction, but took the other path.

            The air was brisk, not nearly the same sort of chill that surrounded the Princess, and allowed Kyle some atmosphere in which to think. He hadn’t much time. Stan had not returned home, and no challenger had stepped forward despite the proclamation in the announcement of Kyle’s engagement to the Princess. Something had to be done, but Kyle’s options were limited, short of waging war. But doing so would be rash and foolish, and would hurt countless others. No, there had to be something.

            Kyle continued walking toward the northern palace gates. More of Larnion’s thick forest lay to the north, becoming hills and then plateaus before the Midlands that separated the two elven kingdoms. Kyle had visited the northern kingdom a few times during his reign, but it was always his first journey there with his parents that was the most memorable.

            He leaned back against the outer side of the gate and looked out at the forest, wondering what his parents would have done. They certainly would not have let things come this far, Kyle was sure of that. His heart sank, and he found himself missing them terribly.

            Kyle had now lived longer without his parents than he had with. Ten years he had been King, and he hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye, or reap his parents’ wisdom in the way of diplomacy, or truly learn magic and other techniques from them. The war had taken so much, and Kyle’s councilors, at the beginning, really had tried. He at least gave them that. But it had not been enough.

            Kyle drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His parents would want the best for him. They would have wanted him to be happy. The council was simply misinterpreting their words. Or hiding something that Kyle had not known about, for the sake of his upbringing without his parents. No… no, the council must have misinterpreted something along the way. Why else would Kyle have had to fight against his council so often?

            At the very least, they would have told him to keep his head up and try his best.

            Content with that, Kyle turned to walk back to the palace, but when he lifted his head walking back through the gates, there in the center of the path, shoulders squared, hands dutifully behind his back, was Leopold, the Princess’s Chaos Paladin.

            Kyle gasped and stopped in his tracks, feeling flames lick at his palms before he managed to calm himself. This was not good. His every instinct was to fight the paladin, then and there.

            “What do you want?” Kyle demanded.

            “My Princess would like a word, your highness,” said the paladin, cold and unfeeling.

            “Tell the Princess she can wait,” Kyle said.

            “There is something very important she wishes to discuss with you, sire,” said the paladin.

            Kyle moved past him and said again, sternly, “It can wait.”

            He had gone a few steps before the paladin said, “She knows your weakness, sire.”

            Kyle paused, and turned. The paladin turned to face him as well, and for a moment, there was nothing between them but wind. Weakness? What weakness? Kyle’s feelings for Stan? That was not weakness, nor was it known. His ease to anger? Perhaps, but that was not weakness either.

            “I told the Princess that she would not unravel me,” Kyle snapped at the paladin, “and neither shall you. Whatever she thinks she knows, whatever it is the two of you are trying to do, it can wait. Your actions will be punishable, and soon. I’ll see to that.”

            “I advise you hear her out, your highness,” was all the paladin said.

            “Your advice means nothing to me.” Kyle clenched his hands into fists, and said, “I order you to stop talking to me. Do not say another word to me. I am King, and you will listen to me, do you understand?”

            The paladin stared for a second, then stepped back, and lifted his head in acknowledgement.

            Kyle let out a huff of breath, turned, and walked quickly back to the palace, leaving the paladin and his chilling words behind.

– – –

            Kyle had studied all he could of the books on flame enchatment, but the words stayed with him: _Stoke your flame._ There may yet still be more he could do. And so, later into the night, Kyle cautiously and quietly made his way back to the main library.

            The torches were not lit, but moonlight shone through the great windows, guiding Kyle’s path. He selected a few books and brought them to a reading table, hefting a particularly large tome open and scanning the contents for something new that he yet could use against the Princess.

            He became so lost in reading that he did not hear footsteps approaching until it was nearly too late. Kyle’s ears twitched and he gasped and lifted his head.

            And there stood the Princess, looking even colder in the pale moonlight.

            “Restless night, my King?” she asked.

            “What are you doing here?” Kyle demanded.

            “It’s soon to be my home,” said the Princess. “Can I not explore it?”

            “You certainly cannot,” Kyle said. “Get out of here.”

            “Why do you resist?” asked the Princess, not moving. “Do you not want peace between our kingdoms?”

            “Is that a threat?” Kyle snapped, closing the book. “We’ve been at peace, Princess. And you have yet to answer a single one of my questions. I cannot trust you, and if I need to stop this wedding myself, then so be it.”

            The Princess said nothing. Kyle left the books where they were, not caring whether the Princess saw what he was reading or not, and began to storm past her.

            “You do realize,” said the Princess, “that your council sees the benefits of your marrying human royalty.”

            “Stop talking to me,” Kyle insisted.

            “Don’t you want to know why?”

            Kyle stopped, but did not turn to look at her.

            “Our union _is_ for the best,” the Princess said. “Your council has always known this to be true. It’s a wonder they never told you.”

            Kyle’s heart pounded. He did not want to listen to the Princess, but this was the most she had said to him in days. Mostly, he had only been getting smug, cold-eyed glances during their insufferable council meetings. Otherwise, he had been avoiding her.

            “Told me what?” Kyle asked, turning to face the Princess.

            “Tell me, King, what do you know of your grandmother?” asked the Princess.

            “My grandmother?”

            “Your mother’s mother. Surely you know something.”

            “I never knew her,” said Kyle. “I was told she died valiantly in battle, as did my mother after her.”

            The Princess turned to view the King in profile, her ice blue eyes narrowed to points. “Oh, no, my betrothed,” she said. “Died, yes, valiantly, hardly. Died in childbirth. Your mother was too much for her to bear. But, oh, what mortal could ever truly carry the seed of an elf?”

            A chill ran down Kyle’s spine. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “What do you mean, mortal?”

            “Human,” said the Princess, “of course.” Kyle’s heart became stone and sank to his core. “Your mother had a foot in both worlds, my darling. She could bear the burden much better than her mother could, of course, which is how she lived to know you. And you, King.” The Princess lifted her skirts and took five steps closer to Kyle, her heels echoing throughout the room. Kyle saw such malice in her eyes, he was glad he could not see the rest of her face. “Were you never told why you aged alongside your precious knight? Were you never told why you fell ill when you were young? Were you never told that you are the end of your line?”

            “No,” Kyle protested. “No. You’re speaking in lies. You only wish to trick me.”

            “I only wish to inform you, my betrothed.”

            “Stop calling me that.”

            “But why fight it? The age of the Drow Elves is coming to an end. You will live and age and die with me, and with no heirs between us, our reign shall be short but glorious.”

            “I refuse to marry you,” Kyle tried. “I refuse to believe you.”

            “Oh, but you must,” said the Princess. “It has been agreed upon by both sides. And as for believing me, well. Must I cut you open to make you understand? You bleed at so much as a pinprick. You know illness, my King, and oh, you do know pain. No elf languishes as you do. No elf has so many tears to shed. You are gifted, I grant you that, but you are far more mortal than any great King of your realm’s past.”

            “Stop talking to me,” Kyle commanded. His eyes burned, which he realized only looked like proof to the Princess’s point. “Why are you telling me this? You have entered my kingdom in a terribly less than noble fashion and done nothing but spread mistrust and lies, and narrow my council’s focus more than it has ever been. I have no reason to believe you. And I _will not_ marry you.”

            “Ask one of them, if you like,” the Princess said, turning her back to Kyle. “Go on. Ask after your grandmother. You’ll find your answers in the graveyard, if nowhere else.”

            Kyle had nothing more to say to the Princess. He let out a yell and left before his inner flame could fully ignite from anger. _Stoke_ his fire, Stan had said. Not unleash an inferno. The time would come; the time would come. Not now, not yet.

            But what now?

            Kyle did not want to believe the Princess’s words, but she had gotten under his skin. Yes, there had been gossip in the past. Yes, Kyle’s hair, like his mother’s, was of a shade no other Drow Elf possessed. Yes, Kyle had fallen ill once as a child. But he was an _elf._ He possessed not only the gift of Sight but the ability to harness the forest’s magic. He was a flame summoner, and a powerful one. The kingdom was always in his heart.

            His heart…

            Kyle’s heart was pounding. He turned a corner and pressed his back to the closest wall. He held both hands over his heart and paid attention to its rapid beat. What was the pace of a human’s heartbeat? Of an elf’s?

            Kyle cursed under his breath for letting the Princess’s words bother him, and he stormed to the council chamber. Finding no one there, he went to the far wall and began furiously tearing open drawer after drawer to find the records of his family.

            _Don’t let her get to you,_ Kyle tried to warn himself. But he pressed on.

            There had to be a reason his council had always been so insufferable. There had to be a reason why they thought long hours of training would tire him. Why they were so intent on following the letter of the law and forcing him to marry before he came of age to rule.

            There must have been something they were hiding from him.

            Kyle tore through still more drawers on the large, long wall at the back of the council chamber, finding copies of treaties from across the ages but nothing of his family’s immediate history. A document proclaiming his parents’ marriage was the closest he found by the time he heard several others enter the room.

            “Sire?” he heard one of his councilmen ask.

            Kyle felt himself begin to burn, but took steeling breaths and did not answer.

            “Sire, it’s late,” the councilman said again. “You should rest.”

            Kyle took one more deep breath, and then, without turning, asked through clenched teeth, “Why?”

            “It’s… there is much to do,” a councilwoman added. “Much to prepare for before your…”

            “Why?” Kyle insisted again, whirling around. Half of his council was present, and he could not control himself any longer. “Why, why, why? To all of it? Out with it. Why must I rest, while clearly all of you are still awake and meddling around? Why do you not take my requests and concerns into immediate consideration? What are you _keeping from me?”_

            “Sire, we’re not—”

            “Do you think you’re endearing yourselves to me to keep your positions?” Kyle snapped. “In a few months, I will have the power to extract whatever information I must from you and relieve you of your duties for good, so why let it fester now? Why not listen to me _now?_ Am I not your King?”

            A councilman said, “You are, sire.”

            “Does the court of Larnion not trust and respect all who dwell within and around this palace?” Kyle continued.

            “Yes, sire—”

            “Then _what,”_ Kyle fumed, “are you _hiding from me?”_

            His council fell silent, and Kyle felt as though the world had started spinning in the opposite direction. He took a deep breath.

            “Why is my hair red?” Kyle asked as evenly as he could.

            One councilwoman’s eyes widened. “Sire, that’s not—”

            “Something that should concern me? Yes it is,” Kyle snapped. “Tell me about my mother. Tell me about her family.”

            “Now isn’t quite the time—”

            “Well, then, _when is?”_

            Again, silence.

            Kyle’s hands clenched into fists, and he squared his shoulders and moved toward his council. “I’ll ask more directly then,” he said. “Tell me about my grandmother.”

            “Sire—”

            _“Was my grandmother human?”_ Kyle burst.

            Once more, silence… this time heavy with unspoken truths.

            “Oh, so it’s _true?!”_ Kyle cried out. “It’s true, and you never thought to tell me? What—why would you not—how _dare you_ keep—”

            “Sire, please,” one of the councilmen tried.

            “Stop talking!” Kyle snapped. “Just tell me. Yes or no. Is it true?”

            The councilmembers were silent for a moment, and then one, a woman who would often try to raise her voice against the majority, said, “It’s true, my lord.”

            Kyle cupped his hands over his mouth to muffle the scream he could not keep from letting out. He shut his eyes and felt tears fall and instantly dissolve against the heat rising from his skin. Kyle took two deep breaths, clenched his hands at his sides, and blinked out a few more tears before glaring at the members of his council.

            “I’m…” he started, and couldn’t say it. “I’m hu… I am a _human,”_ he finally got out, practically tripping on the word, “and you… you never _told me?!_ What is _wrong with you?”_

            “Sire, no,” another councilman said. “You are an elf. You are our High King, and—”

            “But that doesn’t matter to you, does it?” Kyle shouted. “What _does_ matter to you? Which rule is it that you’re clinging so tightly to that you have been lying to me about my lineage my entire life?”

            “We haven’t been _lying,_ my lord, we—”

            “When were you going to tell me, then?” Kyle demanded. “Answer me that. What, did you think it would all smooth out once I was settled down and married? You are impossible! You have always been impossible, but this is… this is too…” He was seething, and needed air. He needed _Stan,_ but Kyle had to take what he could get for the time being. He stormed forward and ordered his council, “Get out of my way. I don’t want you following me, I don’t want you talking to me. Get out of my way.”

            A few tried to call out to him, even to apologize, but Kyle would not hear it. Rage burned inside him and he fixed his gaze only forward as he took strides out of his palace, and toward the plots of royal tombs that lay beyond the eastern gates. Tears filled his eyes and burned away before they could fall. Most of Kyle’s world had already shattered. Why not the rest?

            The Princess was without a doubt evil, and his council was ignoring it. His council was complicit in making the past ten years of his reign nothing but stops and starts, making every decision an unnecessary battle. Simply because they couldn’t have him prying into his family’s past. For some reason that they would not explain. Because the written word meant more to them than their own King’s peace of mind. Because they were not equipped to raise an elven child with traces of human blood.

            His council hadn’t wanted him to learn the ways of the sword, nor advanced magic. They had tried to keep him from further battle. So that he wouldn’t die before the age of twenty. So that his human side could not exhaust him and claim his life.

            Kyle stormed through the graveyard gates and made immediately for his parents’ tomb. He hadn’t visited since the latest anniversary of their fall. He had lost them ten years ago, and in their absence, his memories had mostly been secured in grief and love. He had never before been angry with them. Not until that day.

            Moonlight shone overhead when Kyle arrived at their crypt. Part of him tried not to be angry, tried only to miss his parents as much as he always had, but his council had been enacting, to some extent, _their will._ What Kyle had never learned had been partially their fault.

            “Why did you never _tell me?”_ he screamed at the tomb. He bent down and scooped up a handful of the gravel at his feet and tossed it against the large stone structure, barely making a mark. He let his hands burn with flame for a moment, but reconsidered, and channeled his rage into his words. “Were you ever going to tell me? Where in your decrees did you ever write this down? Why was it kept from me? Did you command that it be _kept from me?_ I hate you. I _hate you!”_

            Kyle fell to his hands and knees and bent to the ground. His fingers dug into the gravel, and he let out a long yell until his throat felt raw. “Why keep my human blood a secret, even from _me?”_ he shouted. “Why did you never tell me? I could have prepared for this. I could have been prepared.”

            He let out another long yell, then sat back on his knees, turned his hands upward to examine his scuffed and dirty palms, and cried.

            And the next word out of his mouth was, “Stan…”

            He tilted his head skyward, wishing for rain. “Stan!” he cried out. “I need you! Where are you?! Didn’t you swear to protect me? Didn’t you swear that I would never know pain?” He bowed his head again and, through sobs, asked the night air, “Where are you? I need you. I need to see you.” He bent forward again, gripping the gravel, feeling the stones cut into his palms. He knew he could easily bleed; he had always thought of it as a weakness, a side effect to having once been ill. Kyle cried softly for a minute more, alone, and cold, and afraid. Just the way he had once found Stan.

            “Come back to me,” he begged, quietly. “Please. Please, Stan, come back to me. I need you now more than ever. I won’t make you look at me. I won’t ask you to hold me. I only need to know that you are safe. I only need you to be here. That’s all I’ll ever ask. But I need you. I need you. I need you.”

            Kyle sat at the crypt for several minutes, wishing for his knight, wishing for something, anything familiar.

            And then fear burst through him like a bolt of lightning.

            _With no heirs between us,_ the Princess had said.

            Everything had been taken from Kyle. His love, his lineage, his future. But no, not everything, not yet. Kyle dried the last of his tears and stood. He wiped his hands off on his robe, turned toward the palace, and broke into a run, his heart pounding wildly.

            “No,” he whispered as he ran. “No, no, no, please, don’t be too late. Please.”

            Stan would tell Kyle to be brave, if he were here, Kyle thought. Stan would say that there could always be hope. Even when he was forcing himself to turn away, Stan would say beautiful words, with only the intention of keeping Kyle safe. It was the least that Kyle could do now to protect himself and his own in Stan’s stead.

            He raced through the palace gates and through the large front doors, and bolted to the large, left-hand staircase, his lungs aching for air. Kyle did not slow down. He continued running as fast as he could down the hall on the second level of the palace, past the first library, past council chambers, back, back, further back until he reached the room before the northern tower. Without knocking, Kyle forced open the door.

            His racing heart filled with relief. There lay Ike, his ward, his charge, asleep, not knowing of the Princess’s lies or her plot. Kyle heard footsteps down the hall, and knew without a doubt that it was the Princess’s men coming to kill Kyle’s only rightful heir.

            Panicked but keeping himself steady, Kyle shut the door and worked swiftly in the dark, thankful, at least, for his Sight. He may have been partially human, but he was still mostly elf, after all, and he would protect what was his at any cost.

            “Ike,” he whispered, moving into the room. _“Ike.”_

            Ike stirred, and woke a few seconds later, opening his eyes in the dark. “Kyle?” he asked. The marching grew louder outside the door. “What’s going on?”

            “We don’t have much time,” Kyle said. “You need to get somewhere safe. Get up. Put on a robe, any robe. We need to leave.”

            Ike obeyed without question, tying on over his dressing-gown a deep red garment quite similar to Kyle’s. “Can I bring—” Ike began.

            “One thing,” Kyle said hurriedly. “Grab one thing, right now, and come with me.”

            “Where? Which way?” Ike grabbed a book and walked over to Kyle.

            “Out the window.”

            “The _window?_ That’s—”

            “Just use the branches, Ike. _Go.”_

            Ike was younger than Kyle, yes, but aging much more slowly due to his pure elf blood. Kyle realized this only now, but was thankful that his ward was so light and still so small. He lifted Ike out the window, and followed after.

            The night air smelled of oncoming rain, for which Kyle was grateful. It could provide further cover. For now, they were too exposed, so Kyle hurried his ward to the closest tree branch that kissed the palace rooftop and helped to guide him down, down, down. The two climbed as quickly as they were able, avoiding windows and light.

            Kyle reached the ground first, and held out his arms, beckoning Ike to jump. He caught his ward, set him down, then grabbed his hand and began running, making for the thicket along the palace gates’ border.

            “What are we doing?” Ike demanded as they ran. “Why are we leaving in the middle of the night? Why could I not bring more with me?”

            “The Princess is corrupted,” Kyle explained, “just as I feared. I have no tangible proof, I have only her words, but she is a serpent, Ike, she is poison. She is not the woman I knew. And she will stop at nothing to kill you.”

            Ike gasped. “Me?” he asked, his black eyes opening wide. “What have I done?”

            “You exist, Ike, you are my charge and currently my only heir. I need you to be safe. I need you to trust me and to lay low.”

            “So where are we going?” Ike asked, tears threatening in his eyes.

            Kyle thought for only a second before answering, “I’m taking you to the Creek. They’ll know what to do, and how to hide you.”

            When they reached the middle of the forest, Kyle brought Ike around the trunk of a large, ancient tree. They rested back against it, catching their breath, and as soon as Kyle gathered the stamina, he cupped his hands over his mouth and sounded a two-toned bird call into the deep, dark woods.

            He listened. Only the rustling of leaves as the clouds shifted overhead. It would rain soon.

            Kyle sounded the call again.

            He counted silently to four, and then the call came back. Kyle grabbed his ward’s hand and rushed in the direction of the echo. They stopped at another tree, and Kyle sounded the call one more time. After a count of four, the echo came back from a close diagonal. “Come on,” Kyle said, taking Ike’s hand one last time as they ran until they came to a large, moss-covered wall.

            “There’s nothing here,” Ike observed.

            “Precisely,” came a voice.

            Ike yelped and ducked beind Kyle, gripping Kyle’s robes in one hand and the book in the other.

            A second look at the wall showed Kyle that there was a young man standing against it in camouflage. Coal dust covered his eyes, and he looked from Ike up to the King himself.

            The Creek never bowed, nor would they even if prompted. They were Kyle’s rogues, operating far outside the law of any land. The only creed they followed was their own, but they were loyal to Kyle without question. To Kyle, not to his parents’ decrees.

            “Thresher,” Kyle greeted the rogue. “I need your help.”

            “Of course, sire,” said the one who called himself Thresher. “Something to do with your ward, I take it?”

            “Please take him somewhere safe,” Kyle begged. “Something horrible is happening at the palace. I can’t explain in detail right now.”

            “No need. If you need him hidden, we will hide him.”

            Kyle let out a grateful sigh, then turned and set his hands on Ike’s shoulders. “I need you to trust me,” he said sternly. “I need you to go with the Creek. They’ll keep you safe, and away from the Princess and her paladin’s deceit.”

            “But what about you?” Ike asked, trembling.

            “I will deal with the Princess as best I can. Everything smells of warlocks’ magic, and I will expose her somehow. I will find you when I can.” He hugged his ward, grateful beyond words that he had found him in time. “Be safe,” Kyle said. “Be well. I will find you.”

            “Be safe,” Ike echoed.

            Yes. Kyle would tell him everything, when there was time.

            Ike stepped forward, clutching his book as he regarded the young man known as Thresher, who stepped out from the wall and extended a hand. Ike looked up at Kyle, who nodded, and took Thresher’s hand.

            Before the two could leave, Kyle asked, “Thresher?”

            “Yes?”

            “Any… any news?” Kyle asked, his heart pounding. “About Stan?”

            Thresher’s eyes darted upward as drops of rain began to fall, and then he looked again at Kyle and answered, “Yes.”

            A lump formed in Kyle’s throat. “Safe?” he asked.

            “Yes.”

            When the rain came, Thresher and Ike were gone.

            Kyle let out another sigh of relief, and let what news he had calm him and push him forward. Stan was safe from harm. Ike was safe in the care of the Creek.

            Lightning struck overhead, and Kyle turned, watching the brief flash from the sky illuminate the silhouette of his palace. Another bolt then shot up from the ground, as though Leopold had signaled his answer to the storm.

            The Princess had revealed all that Kyle needed to know. Whatever she was, she needed to be stopped. _With no heirs between us,_ she had said, _our reign shall be short but glorious._ And then, without a doubt, Larnion would fall.

            Gathering his resolve, Kyle narrowed his eyes and started walking toward home, knowing that, some way or another, he would take back everything. There was no room for chaos here.

– – –


	9. IX. Family Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kyle pays a much-needed visit to the Creek in their own home, and Stan finds himself standing at the threshold between his forgotten past and his unknown future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Should be back on track now.  
> Anyway, as a note, this is the only chapter in which Stan and Kyle's memory sequences do not in some way involve each other...

            When he rode out from the tavern in the morning, Stan had the sinking feeling that, whatever happened that day, his course might soon and suddenly change. He tried to make the feeling positive; tried to think that it must mean that he did not need to travel much longer, that all of his answers would appear, that he could return home triumphant, that the plot would be foiled, that the true Princess would return, that Kyle would be granted every freedom he deserved.

            But still, Stan worried. Worried that this side trip to meet his sister could turn disastrous. That he would discover just how correct Leopold had been all along, or, worse yet, that Stan might start to feel that _nothing_ was what he deserved and _nowhere_ was where he belonged. That meeting his sister might shock back horrible memories he had long since moved beyond and forgotten.

            “Sir?” Clyde asked as they rode.

            “Hmm?” Stan said, blankly, half forgetting how far they’d traveled or quite where they were.

            “Where is this exactly that we’re veering off to?” Clyde asked. “I thought you wanted to go directly to each town. We could make it most of the way to one today, but that marker you showed me this morning…”

            “Is it not on the way?” Stan checked.

            “It is,” Clyde said. “I know _of_ the place. Estate with an orchard, used to have a farm with tenants working the land.”

            “Used to?” Stan asked. Perhaps his sister was already gone.

            “Sir, why make the extra trip?” Clyde asked again.

            Stan sighed, and looked out at the vast fields around them. He hated being so exposed, particularly given that he had chosen to once again don his knight’s uniform for the sake of his visit to his sister, but they were quite alone on the road. He wondered how the Creek managed to hide and make contacts throughout such open expanses of land.

            “Feldspar paid me a visit,” Stan said. “Apparently I’ve a sister who claims residence there. He told me the trip would be worth the time, and I’m inclined to follow his judgment.”

            Clyde was silent for a moment, then said, “I may not know much about you, Sir, but you must have quite a story. Your family isn’t from Larnion?”

            “No,” Stan said. After they had rode a bit longer, Stan continued, “Clyde, do you declare yourself in service to Larnion?”

            “I suppose so,” Clyde said. “I’m indebted to you and your King, Sir.”

            “And you are free of possession?”

            “Ten years gone, Sir.”

            Stan sighed. “Then I suppose you’ve a right to know a bit more,” Stan said. “I’ve lived in Larnion most of my life, in the court of my King from the beginning. I came from the Midlands but remember very little of it. I’d forgotten that I had a sister. My life is for Larnion, and for my King.”

            “I see,” said Clyde. And, after a pause, “Are you _really_ not lovers, because it sounds like—”

            “We’re close,” Stan said again.

            “Uh-huh. Then what brings you out here? Why do you need to slay a dragon?”

            “Because my King is days away from being tricked into marrying one that has disguised herself as Princess Kenny of Zaron.”

            Clyde shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, seeming for a moment as though he wanted to run and get away from the situation, but he continued on. “All right,” was all he said instead. “I hope you find what you need, Sir.”

            “As do I,” said Stan.

            They rode on for another two hours until the manor of the estate appeared in the distance. Stan’s heart skipped, and he pressed his horse onward. His quest could very well end today, if his sister by some means had what Stan was looking for. Or things could become so much worse. No… Feldspar had assured him that the trip would be worth Stan’s time. He had to believe that.

            There was an open-air stable close to the manor, so Stan dismounted and left his horse with Clyde. “I may not be long,” Stan said, realizing he had, in fact, no idea what he was walking into.

            “Good luck, Sir.”

            Stan instantly curled his left hand around the grip of his sword, reminding himself that Kyle’s luck, too, was always with him. “Thank you,” Stan said, and he turned and walked up the path to the stone building before him.

            Stan knew, in the back of his mind, that he once had had a sister. He knew that he once must also have had a mother and father, but he could not remember details. He had only known Kyle and, for a fleeting two years, the former High King and Queen of the Drow Elves. He had known Kyle’s ward, Ike, and the many elder knights and Stan’s fellow squires from his youth, and Feldspar and Thresher. That was all the family Stan required. Larnion was the only home he had ever truly known, and it had been kind to him.

            Stan could remember being in a carriage as a young boy, falling out of it, and running and running away from the dire wolves that prowled the edge of the forest at night. He could remember hiding in the cold marshes where the wolves dared not go, and eating a few fish and safe wild plants before Kyle had found him. He could barely remember what had come before. Perhaps he’d hit his head falling out of the carriage, or perhaps his life was inconsequential before Kyle.

            But standing here, in front of the small manor, he tried to remember. Perhaps his sister worked for the lord and lady of the manor here. A cook, or a nursemaid. Perhaps she was a musician, or a poet, or even a bodyguard herself.

            Stan steeled himself, took up the manor’s round iron door knocker in his hand, and brought it down against the door three times.

            A girl a few years younger than Stan, with strawberry blonde hair tied up in a bun, opened the door. She looked a bit, Stan thought, like Feldspar, the way she furrowed her brow. “Yes?” she asked.

            Stan straightened his back and announced, “I am Sir Stanley, Captain of the Guard of the High Elf King’s court in Larnion. I’m looking for a woman named Shelley. Does she live here?”

            The girl at the door gasped and cupped her hands over her mouth, then bowed deeply. Standing up again, she exclaimed, “You’re him—you’re my lady’s lost son! Aren’t you?”

            Stan’s heart skipped a beat. “I… beg your pardon?”

            The girl trembled, then bowed to Stan again before beckoning him in. “Your sister is in the library, my lord,” said the young woman, bursting with energy. “I will announce you right away.”

            “Wait,” Stan asked, stopping in his tracks. The girl stopped, too, and turned to look back at him. A sting hit Stan’s chest. “What… what did you just call me?”

            The girl beamed. “I have called you my lord, for that is what you are,” she said.

            Stan paled. Impossible. Stan was from the Midlands; there were no lords in the Midlands. He heard himself say, “No…” in a whisper before he even had the inclination to speak.

            “My lady has always said,” the girl went on, “that you would not know this place, should you be alive, but that I would know you when I saw you, should the day ever come to pass. I never expected that you might return, and yet here you are.”

            “Wait. No. I’m… who am I, to you?” Stan asked, his heart racing. “Who am I to this place?”

            “You are my lady’s youngest child,” said the girl. “And you are home.”

* * *

            On the day Stan turned six, his mother had prepared a sweet rice pudding, and Stan had eagerly taken two small bowls of it out to the back of the little cottage in which his family had lived at the time. A girl a few years older than Stan sat with her back against the outer wall as she took up small fistfuls of cornmeal from a bucket and tossed it toward a flock of chickens. Stan triumphantly held out one of the bowls to her.

            “What is this?” she asked.

            “Mother made rice pudding!” Stan announced. He showed a grin, revealing two gaps in the spaces where he’d recently lost baby teeth. “One for you, Shelley.”

            “Why?” asked Shelley, accepting the bowl.

            Stan sat down beside her and stirred his own pudding. “It’s my birthday,” he said. “I’m six.”

            “Oh, yes,” said Shelley. She smiled a little for her brother, which got Stan to smile in return. Shelley tried her pudding. “It’s good,” she said. “Father will probably make her sell the rest.”

            Stan looked down at his bowl. “Then I’ll enjoy this,” he said. He tried some and it was wonderful, the sweetest thing he’d had in months, and, forgetting already how precious the treat was, ate another three spoonfuls.

            Shelley mussed up her brother’s hair. “Don’t enjoy it too fast,” she warned.

            Stan laughed and set his spoon down in the bowl. He looked up at Shelley, then out at the chickens. “Is he coming home tonight?” Stan asked.

            “Father? Most likely.”

            “Oh. Okay.”

            Shelley cast a look around, then leaned in and said, “Between you and me, Stanley, I’ve heard Mother talking about us leaving, the next chance we get.”

            “Leaving?” Stan asked. “Where?”

            “Somewhere without Father, anyway,” said Shelley.

            “Why would we leave him?” Stan wanted to know.

            “Why wouldn’t we?” said Shelley.

            “Oh,” Stan said. He nodded somberly, then picked up a bit of cornmeal from Shelley’s bucket of it and threw it to the chickens.

            There was a pause, and then Shelley said, changing the subject, “Six years old, Stanley. You’ll be all grown up before we know it.”

            “Uh-huh,” said Stan, going back to happily stirring his rice pudding. “When I grow up, I’d like to be an explorer, I think. Or perhaps a knight.”

            “A knight?” asked Shelley. She laughed a little. “A knight from the Midlands?”

            Stan shrugged. “Or a ranger,” he said. “I could be anything! Just not a rogue.”

            “Well,” said Shelley, “whatever you become, you must learn how to lace up your boots.”

            Stan spread his legs out straight in front of him, confirming that both of his worn boots were unlaced. He was already growing out of them. “Aw-aww,” he complained. “Must I?”

            “Oh, yes,” said Shelley. “Finish your pudding and I’ll show you how.”

            And for quite some time, that was all of Shelley that remained in Stan’s life. When Stan was seven, he lost her. When Stan was eight, he began to forget her. When Stan was nine, she was gone. But every so often as he grew up, whenever he laced his boots, he’d recall someone having once taught him what to do. Until that, too, was distant.

            Stan had never mentioned Shelley to Kyle, for he longed to so quickly forget the life he had left behind in the Midlands; to live apart from the family that had sent him away for reasons Stan had never known.

* * *

            Kyle had nothing to say to the Princess or to his council the following day. Anyone who was not a member of Stan’s guard who tried to greet Kyle that morning received no response. Kyle still trusted the knights; he knew that they were just as worried about Stan’s absence as he was, and unless news came with proof of Stan’s death or capture, the knights would carry on under Stan’s command. For this, Kyle was immeasurably grateful.

            Kyle walked past the dining hall and instead went straight to the kitchens. He ordered a meal to be prepared in front of him and asked one of the cooks to taste the result. Kyle was now convinced that the Princess was bent on his destruction, and he could not be too careful. He was also convinced that the woman staying in his palace was indeed not Princess Kenny. Kyle still mostly believed that Kenny was dead, and her words and actions were pure necromancy. That still did not explain Leopold’s behavior, but Kyle could only focus on so much.

            Still without speaking to anyone, Kyle had two knights follow him back to his bedchamber, where he ate alone and in silence at his desk, keeping his mind occupied by reading through an older spellbook that detailed how to ward off and end enchantments on the undead. If Kenny was dead, Kyle would need to locate the necromancer responsible for reviving her, and Kyle wondered if that was precisely where Stan had gone.

            A knock came at the door, and Kyle had half a mind not to respond at all.

            When it came again, he gave in, “What?”

            “A… a query from the council, my lord,” said the guard on the other side of the door.

            Kyle felt heat rise in anger inside him, and he stormed to the door. Before he could open it, he paused, calmed his rage with a breath, and thought through what he could possibly do. The council could be asking after anything. Kyle’s well-being in the wake of the previous evening’s revelations, perhaps; Ike’s whereabouts. But somehow Kyle doubted both scenarios. His council cared about laws and traditions more than anything. They probably had not even noticed that Ike was gone.

            Steeling himself, Kyle opened the door a crack, and stared down the older councilman on the other side of the door. _“What,”_ Kyle demanded.

            “We… didn’t see you in the dining hall, my lord,” said the councilman.

            “I don’t feel well,” Kyle said, coming up with the excuse on the spot.

            The councilman paled, and Kyle knew he’d found the perfect stalling strategy to get out of any further talk of the wedding for a while. “I’m sorry?” the councilman said in disbelief.

            “You heard me,” Kyle said, still staring him down. “I don’t feel well. And you know why, don’t you?”

            “My lord, please…”

            “Don’t disturb me for the rest of the day,” Kyle ordered. “I need to rest.”

            “We didn’t mean—”

            “No, I’m sure you didn’t.”

            “I’ll send up a medic,” the councilman offered.

            “No,” Kyle refused. “Listen to me, for once in your life. Do not disturb me. Do not send anyone up here. Do not do a damned thing that might make me feel worse. You may think you know what’s best for me, but I promise you, you don’t. Go away, and let me rest.”

            The councilman tried to say something else, but the door guard intervened. The door guard was a man that Stan himself had appointed to the task, and he had always been good to respect Kyle’s wishes. “The King,” said the guard to the councilor, “wishes not to be disturbed, your grace.”

            The councilman regarded Kyle again, and then the guard, and the guard’s sharp lance, and then the elder man took his leave. Kyle thanked the guard and asked him to remain vigilant for the rest of the day, and into the next if need be.

            Relieved that he at least had an excuse now, Kyle closed and bolted the door and retreated into his bedchamber. He dressed, tucking daggers into his boots as Stan had taught him and foregoing his usual comfortable doublet for a leather jerkin that could withstand any possible attacks on his life. Kyle tied on a belt, fixed his sword to it, then put on a robe and left out the window.

            Kyle climbed from the palace spires and into the trees, and kept himself out of view until he’d made it to the thick of the forest. Once on the ground, he took a deep breath, pressed his back to the trunk of a sturdy tree, and closed his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he truly had a moment to himself.

            He savored his solitude and slid to the ground, sitting with his back to the tree and doing nothing more than watching nature. While Kyle did not truly feel ill that day, he did feel uneasy, but at least he had the day to think, and hopefully not have a single encounter with the Princess, the paladin, or anyone on either council. He so hated being confined by regulations and the council’s want to hurry things along before he turned twenty. Kyle wanted to ride out and communicate with his people, he wanted moments alone, he wanted to talk for hours on end with Stan about anything and everything.

            Kyle stood with resolve, telling himself that such desires were yet within his grasp, and he began walking. That far into the forest, if he did not find the Creek, then they would find him.

            And they did indeed; at least, one of them did.

            “Hold!” a call came from the trees overhead.

            Kyle stopped in his tracks and looked up, just in time for a blur to drop down from the canopy above. Kyle was pulled back, and he heard Thresher’s voice in his ear: “Be alert, sire, I’ve been setting traps.”

            “Ah,” Kyle said, and now he was able to see the pattern of leaves on the ground, covering something unpleasant for an unwitting animal or enemy. Calming himself, Kyle turned. “Thresher,” he said, “you have my thanks again for what you’ve done to help my ward. And my knight.”

            “We do what we can,” Thresher answered. He turned to go, then asked, “Would you like to see your ward, sire?”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, his heart pounding. “Yes, thank you.”

            “Come with me.”

            Thresher led the way through the forest, all but disappearing into thick underbrush as the trees became taller and light became more scarce. They walked for several minutes in relative silence, until Thresher stopped in front of a nondescript thicket in a rare patch of sun. The rogue cupped his hands around his mouth and whistled out a two-note call, one long, one short. He sounded it again, and stood back.

            All of a sudden, the curtain of branches appeared to part, revealing a small, grassy plot of land around a modest stone cottage with a tight thatched roof. The door was a beautiful polished wood, upon which was painted, in black, one of Feldspar’s strongest sigils. To the right of the cottage lay a little garden, and a grey goat was tied to the post beside it, eating weeds. A small speckled dog lay in front of the cottage door, but lifted its head and let out a welcoming bark upon seeing Thresher.

            The dog bounded up, licked Thresher’s hand and sniffed Kyle’s, and then was off, patrolling the small premises.

            “What… what is this?” Kyle asked.

            “It’s our home,” said Thresher, walking forward.

            “No. Noooo, no, no,” Kyle said, pressing his hands out in front of him. Thresher stopped and turned. “Don’t you… don’t you live in a cave or a den somewhere?”

            Thresher let out a brief laugh. “Too little light,” he said. “And too many bats. No, too much pressure, to live in a cave.”

            “What _is this?”_ Kyle repeated. “How did I not know this was here?”

            “Feldspar is a master of illusory magic,” Thresher pointed out. “Come inside.”

            Kyle followed Thresher, dumbfounded. Inside, the cottage had low but warm light, beaming off the stones from the sunlight through the narrow windows and the kitchen fire at the back of the front room. “Tea?” Thresher asked.

            “I… yes?” said Kyle, taking everything in.

            The cottage opened on the kitchen, which had a modest hearth—over which Thresher swung a large black kettle—and ample shelves holding cookware, ale and mead kegs, jars of tea and meal and spices, a basket of bread, and a fresh board of salted meat. Over one of the little windows hung drying tea leaves and herbs, wrapped carefully with twine. Toward the center of the room was a sturdy wooden table, situated just before the opening into the rest of the little building, and at the table sat Feldspar.

            “Gods have mercy!” Kyle yelped upon noticing him. Feldspar waved. Kyle caught his breath and managed to walk to the table, gripping the back of a well-carved chair that sat before it, across from the rogue.

            Feldspar was reclining in his own chair with his ankles crossed on a stool, and he had his head propped up with one hand, which held a wet cloth to the left corner of his mouth. “Well met, my King,” he greeted Kyle.

            “What on _earth,”_ Kyle said. “How long has this cottage been here?”

            Feldspar looked at the ceiling, then over at Thresher. “Four years?” he asked.

            “Four and a half,” Thresher corrected.

            “Yes, right,” said Feldspar.

            “Did you build it?” asked Kyle.

            “We did.”

            “When? How?”

            “There are rocks about,” said Feldspar.

            “Where did you get the goat?”

            “Didn’t think you’d miss it.”

            Kyle narrowed his eyes at the rogue. “You stole a goat.”

            “The goat wandered away and would have been eaten. We _saved_ a goat.”

            “And you… what, you’ve been living in this invisible cottage for four and a half years?” Kyle said.

            “Yes, that’s the jist of it,” said Feldspar.

            Thresher prepared a small, thin basket full of tea leaves, and set it into a large earthenware mug. “Please sit down, sire,” he offered Kyle. “I’m sorry we don’t have much in the way of accommodations.”

            “I’m… truthfully, I’m impressed with what you have,” Kyle said.

            Thresher laughed, and said, “We make do.”

            Kyle pulled out the chair, marveling at the craftsmanship of the carvings, and sat down, across from Feldspar. “You made… all of this…?” he asked, glancing around.

            “Together and over the years,” Thresher answered. He moved the kettle from the hearth, took it up in a cloth, and poured the boiling water over the basket full of tea. He brought it over to Kyle, and said, “Please give that a moment, your highness.”

            “Yes, thank you,” Kyle said, still in shock.

            “We’ve looked after your ward,” Feldspar offered. “Talker, isn’t he?”

            “Where is he now?”

            “Asleep, hence the quiet.” Feldspar flushed. “I’m sorry, sire, that was uncalled for.”

            “No. It’s a reprieve,” Kyle admitted. He missed conversations like this. He missed having friends. He missed talking with Stan. “Speak freely.”

            “I’d speak more,” Feldspar admitted, “but…” He gestured with his right hand to the wound he was nursing.

            Thresher left and returned again to the table with a clean bowl and a pitcher. He slid Feldspar’s bowl of water away and poured some fresh into the new one. “Here,” he said, drawing Feldspar’s hand away from the wound on his mouth. “Let me see.”

            “It’s healing,” Feldspar insisted.

            “I’ll be the judge of that.”

            Kyle’s heart skipped and he watched in what he realized was envy as Thresher took Feldspar’s face in his hands and delicately turned him to examine the jagged red scar. Feldspar sucked in an annoyed breath and his companion shushed him. Just as Kyle had always suspected, the Creek were in fact a pair in more than just their duties. They lived within their means, secretly and modestly, but they were together.

            Kyle felt guilty for his thoughts turning to such deep jealousy for what they had.

            “It’s healing,” Feldspar said again.

            “It will,” said Thresher. “New rag. Here you are.” He wet a new cloth in the bowl of fresh water and gave it to his partner, who offered up the old one.

            Before setting the new wet cloth in place, Feldspar touched two fingertips to the stitched up scar and said, “It hasn’t been bleeding for two days.”

            “Stop touching it,” Thresher said, pulling Feldspar’s hand away from the wound. “I don’t want to stitch it back up again, and I’m tired of kissing you everywhere but the mouth.” He accentuated the teasing warning with a kiss to Feldspar’s forehead. Feldspar smiled with the unhurt side of his mouth, picked up the cold cloth again, and, keeping eye contact with his partner, pressed it to the wound. Thresher smiled back, and took the dirty linen and bowl into another room.

            “So you _are_ together,” Kyle heard himself say.

            Feldspar moved only his eyes to look at the King. “Of course we are,” he said, managing to keep the cloth in place. “What made you think that we weren’t?”

            “I… I confess that I don’t know much about you.”

            Feldspar smirked with the good half of his mouth. “Oh, woe,” he said. “And here I thought that we were friends.”

            “Friends don’t build secret cottages on friends’ property,” Kyle said with mock bitterness.

            Feldspar laughed, then winced from laughing. He set his feet on the ground and shifted so that he fully leaned forward on the table. “You’ll keep our home a secret, sire, won’t you?” he asked.

            “Of course I will,” said Kyle. “Just… ask me about the livestock next time.”

            “I think we have everything we need, sire,” said Feldspar. “But we will be sure to keep you informed of any new… acquisitions.”

            Kyle sighed. He regarded Feldspar for a moment, forcing himself not to be jealous, trying to think about something—anything else. He couldn’t. “How long have you two been…?” he asked.

            “What, partners?” said Feldspar. “Since we’ve known you, your highness. Lovers? Nearly five years, I think. Time runs together, and doesn’t really matter before that.”

            “Since you were so young?” Kyle pried, knowing that, even as King, this was out of place.

            “Since we fell in love,” Feldspar corrected.

            Thresher returned to the kitchen at that point, nearly unrecognizable to Kyle as he’d washed his face of his usual markings and was wearing a simple white tunic. He sat down in the stool beside Feldspar, and took a light hold of his lover’s right hand.

            “Ah,” said Kyle. “Yes. I see. Well. I’m… I’m very happy for you.” And just in saying so, he realized that he was. It was still no excuse for his jealousy, but he felt somewhat comforted in knowing that his friends had found their own happiness.

            Forcing himself to change the subject, Kyle asked, “Where did you get that wound?” Feldspar paled, which told Kyle that it came from nothing good. “That’s not something from a fall, or a brush with a wild animal. Who cut you?”

            “Sire—“

            “Ten years you’ve served me, and no one has laid a hand on you,” Kyle said sternly. “Who got close enough to cut you? Who is faster, who is keener than the Creek? Who did this?”

            Feldspar looked at his partner, and Thresher nodded. With a sigh, Feldspar removed the cloth from the wound, to show Kyle the angle. It was very red, and therefore still fresh, and the cut had been jagged—too thin to be a dagger, but too eccentric and deep to be a razor. It split Feldspar’s lower lip at the corner and shot erraticaly downward toward his chin and to a point. It had been stitched together masterfully, but it would leave an alarming scar. “The paladin,” Feldspar answered. “Leopold.”

            Kyle’s breath stalled. “I knew it,” he said.

            “His hammer reads the air and shoots lightning,” Feldspar said. “No blade could cut me, sire. This,” he said, pointing to the wound, “was the work of pure chaos. He couldn’t even see me. But his hammer could.”

            “No…” Kyle heard himself utter.

            “I’m lucky this is all that happened to me,” said Feldspar, causing his partner to shudder and nod. “If you are correct, and there is corruption in the Princess’s court—and I believe you, sire, every word—then it’s the paladin you’ll want to take down first. He’s been stalking this forest nearly every night for weeks, now.”

            Kyle drew a deep breath. “I can’t gather an army with that very paladin patrolling my kingdom,” he said. “Is there anyone you know, anyone you can contact who can begin to gather forces in secret?”

            The Creek exchanged a silent glance. Thresher tapped his fingers in a particular pattern a few times against Feldspar’s hand, and the latter nodded. Kyle’s jealousy returned; they even had a private language.

            Thresher answered, “We do. A cleric. He lives in the Princess’s domain and is a trustworthy source. There’s also…”

            “The Valkyrie,” Feldspar finished.

            “Too risky,” said Kyle.

            “If the fight moves west, we need them,” Feldspar insisted.

            “Do you suppose?” Kyle asked. “Is this leading to war?”

            “I didn’t say war. I said fight. It won’t need to be a war if you play this well, your highness. You are an excellent strategiest. I know you can come up with something, once the forces are there for you to command.”

            Kyle let out a pent-up breath. “I feel that I can’t,” he said. “Not without my knight.” His eyes itched, and while he managed to stop the tears from forming, he could not stop himself from talking about Stan. “Do you have any news? Anything?”

            “From your knight, sire?” asked Feldspar.

            “Yes. Anything, anything at all.”

            Again the Creek communicated with their eyes, and then Feldspar once again nodded. “He’s moved across the border,” Feldspar said. “Still safe, I promise you. He’s well protected, I’ve seen to that.”

            Kyle sighed. He drummed his fingers on the table, then took a nervous sip of tea. It was alarmingly good; strong but smooth. “Is he… when is he coming home?”

            “He is on a quest for proof, sire,” said Feldspar. “He’ll return once he’s found it.”

            Kyle’s heart soared, but Feldspar’s wording was enough to make him laugh. “A quest,” he repeated. He cupped his hands over his mouth, then set them down again on the table and let himself burst out laughing. “A quest!” he said again. “In all these years, I have never once sent Stan on a quest!”

            “I’m… sure he’ll perform his duties well, sire,” Thresher offered, clearly taken aback by the King’s sudden outburst.

            Kyle continued laughing until finally tears did come. He cupped his hands over his mouth again, choked out a single sob, and nodded. “Yes,” he said, calming himself. “Yes, I’m sure he will.”

            The Creek were silent for a moment, and then, cautiously, Thresher asked, “Forgive me for overstepping, sire, but you still love him, don’t you?”

            “More than ever, every day,” Kyle answered.

            Thresher let go of Feldspar and reached across the table to take Kyle’s left hand in both of his. He looked Kyle straight in the eyes, smiled, and said, “Then he will return victorious. I know it.”

            Kyle felt a few more tears fall, and he was about to thank Thresher when the latter continued, “The two of you have woven a strong bond together, your highness. I haven’t a doubt that you will see him again soon.”

            Kyle’s voice was scarcely above a whisper when he finally did manage to say, “Thank you, Thresher. Thanks to both of you for your faith in us.”

            Thresher smiled again, patted Kyle’s hand, and sat back beside Feldspar just as small footsteps approached from the back rooms. Within a moment, Ike appeared in the kitchen doorframe.

            “Ike!” Kyle exclaimed. He stood, rushed around the table, and dropped to his knees and gathered his ward into his arms. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re well. How are you? I’m so sorry we had to leave so suddenly.”

            Ike patted Kyle’s back and said, “I’m well. What is going on?” Kyle drew back, and Ike continued, “Why did the Princess want to kill me? When can I come home?”

            “The Princess is under some sort of enchantment,” Kyle said. “I’m sorry, Ike, but you must lay low and stay here with the Creek until this darkness passes.”

            “I thought the Princess was your friend.”

            “She was,” Kyle said. “I’m not sure what happened, but I am investigating. I will visit you as often as I can, but you mustn’t leave here without the Creek.”

            Ike nodded solemnly. “I understand,” he said. A smile crossed his face, and he said, “Feldspar is quite gifted in illusions, isn’t he? And no one can hunt like Thresher! May I learn from them, Kyle?”

            Kyle laughed a little. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “If they’re inclined to agree. I know that they can be valuable mentors.” He glanced back at the two in question.

            Feldspar looked skeptical for a moment, but after a look from Thresher, Feldspar shrugged. Thresher said, “We’d be delighted to. Now,” he continued, “this cottage is well hidden. Talk freely together, wherever you like. We’ll be here.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said again, with a nod. He stood, took Ike’s hand, and let his ward lead him back into a small sitting area with ample light and windows lined with carefully potted herbs. They sat together on a long wooden bench that bore the same fine, intricate craftsmanship as the chairs and table in the kitchen. “You were able to rest, then?” Kyle asked Ike, to begin.

            “Yes, after a while,” Ike said. “Kyle?”

            “Yes, Ike?”

            “Are we going to war against the Princess?”

            “I hope that it won’t come to that,” Kyle said. “But you’re old enough now to know that danger can strike when you least expect it.” His breath caught somewhat, but he continued: “Someday, the world willing, you will be King, and you need to learn to fortify yourself. Even my council is not on my side.” Setting his hands on Ike’s shoulders, he went on, “I sincerely hope that I will not leave you the way my parents left me, but if such a thing should come to pass, you must be cautious. Know the questions to ask, Ike. Know who your true allies are.”

            “Like the Creek?” Ike asked. “And Sir Stanley?”

            “Yes,” Kyle said with a smile.

            “Where is Sir Stanley?” Ike wanted to know. “He can’t have been patrolling the border for two full weeks.”

            Kyle drew a steeling breath. “No,” he said. “You’re right, Ike. Stan has embarked on a quest.” Pride beat into Kyle’s heart as he said the words. “He will return when the time is right for us to properly deal with the Princess and her paladin.”

            “Oh,” Ike said solemnly. “I see. Are things really that bad, with the Princess?”

            “I’m afraid so, Ike.”

            Kyle sat back, and folded his hands in his lap. He glanced around the Creek’s little cottage and tried to center himself, but the truth remained that he missed Stan with every mention of his name; with every thought of him. “I miss him,” he hardly realized he had said aloud.

            “Sir Stanley?” Ike guessed.

            Kyle tried to smile for his ward. “Yes.”

            There was a pause, then, before Ike said, “Kyle?”

            “Yes, Ike?”

            “You don’t look well,” Ike observed.

            “I don’t feel well,” Kyle answered.

            Ike scrunched up his nose. “How is that possible?” he wondered.

            Kyle’s heart skipped, and he looked down at his hands. He was not ready to divulge his truth to Ike, not yet, not now, but he was at least in the company of someone he could trust with other matters. “Ike,” he began, looking at the finely laid stones of the Creek’s cottage floor, “sometimes I think that status is the sharpest blade. It strikes and severs; it’s cruel, and merciless. It carves canyons between people and leaves sorrow in its wake. I hate it.”

            “But you’re the King,” Ike insisted.

            “Yes,” said Kyle. “A title that was given to me, a role that was tutored and advised into me. I have no rungs to climb, and I never had. But even so, I am deprived of the joys of marrying for love, and love alone. I am King because I have to be, and I plan to rule with trust and honor until time decrees that I must be done. But secretly, Ike, I do sometimes dream of what life might be like, even one step down.”

            “You would want that?”

            “If I could be happy,” Kyle said, lifting his head.

            Ike paused, following Kyle’s gaze. “Is this what you want?” asked Ike, surveying the interior of the little cottage. “Is this what you dream about?”

            “I didn’t think it would look quite like this,” Kyle confessed, “but now that I’ve seen it, I do. Look around, Ike. It’s beautiful.”

            “It’s so small.”

            “But it has everything they need.” Kyle’s eyes watered as he looked into the well-lit, comfortable kitchen, where everything had its place. “They have each other.”

            Ike was silent for a moment, then reached out a hand and placed it on Kyle’s arm. “You’re talking about Stanley, aren’t you?” Ike surmised.

            Kyle nodded, and said, quietly, “Yes.”

            Ike furrowed his brow in thought, then said, “Stall the Princess, then. You’re so nearly twenty. Stall and lie and do whatever you must until you can write your own laws. Marry beneath you. You’re the King, you should be able to do whatever you choose.”

            Kyle let a smile cross his face. He then leaned over and pulled his ward close for a familial embrace, and said, “I’m so happy you’re well, Ike. I’m so grateful the paladin’s terror could not find you. Promise me you’ll stay this wise.”

            Ike laughed and sat back. “You think me wise?”

            “Oh, yes. Much more so than any of my dreadful advisors.”

            The two spoke for a while longer, until Kyle knew he had been away long enough, and should return, just to be sure that no one was seeking him out. Ike bid Kyle good luck and farewell, and retreated to the room he’d been given for the time being, to divulge himself in reading the single book he’d brought with him.

            When Kyle returned to the kitchen, Feldspar had done away with his wet cloth and was busying himself tying twine around a few sprigs of rosemary. On the other side of the table, Thresher was in the midst of sharpening their many daggers and knives with a whetstone. Thresher glanced up first and asked, “Are you returning to the palace, my lord?”

            “I believe so, yes,” Kyle said. “I’m avoiding confrontation with everyone there best I can for the time being, and plan to use that time to prepare my defense against the Princess and her paladin.”

            Thresher smiled, set down his whetstone and blade, and stood. “Well, then,” he said, taking a basket from a hook on the ceiling, “no reason for you to go home empty-handed.”

            As Thresher went about filling the basket with some of the food and provisions from the cottage, Feldspar said, “Your ward is safe with us as long as he needs to be, sire. We’ll be sure of that.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said. “Really, I cannot thank you enough for all you have done.”

            “We believe in the true cause of the forest, your highness,” said Feldspar, smiling somewhat as he went about his little task. “And in you, for upholding it.”

            “The true cause?” Kyle asked.

            “As a protector and provider,” Feldspar said. “That is what the forest is, and that is what you are as well, sire. You’re in every position to listen to each whim of your council and leap at every opportunity for expanse, but you don’t. You never do. You care for your forest and your people, and we are proud to call you our King. And I know, in the end, that the world will be on your side, your highness. You will succeed.”

            That was the most Feldspar had ever said to Kyle in a single thought, and by far the most the Creek had ever praised him. Kyle stared at Feldspar for a moment, but Feldspar simply smiled and shrugged and went back to his work. The rogues knew many truths, and had the trust of the forest, and Kyle believed every word the Creek spoke.

            Where the night before he had been cut with the Princess’s despairing revelation, Kyle found himself that day filled with more hope than he had felt in weeks. He would succeed, Kyle repeated to himself. He would succeed, and so would Stan.

            “Right, here you are, sire,” Thresher said, handing Kyle the small basket of provisions.

            “I… I can’t take this,” Kyle tried to refuse.

            “Nonsense, take it and enjoy all the time you can away from those who would prefer to unravel you,” Thresher said. “Fortify yourself, your highness. If there is indeed a fight forthcoming, you’ll need to prepare all you can. You have our word that we will send out a call to our allies, to gather assistance in silence until you say the word, sire.”

            Kyle nodded, and accepted the gift. “Thank you,” he said. “Please, if there is anything that I can do for you, know that you have any of my resources at your disposal.”

            “We’re quite satisfied for now,” said Feldspar. “We’re simply paying back the kindness you have already shown to us and all others who reside in your kingdom.”

            Kyle smiled, and thanked the two again before turning to go. But he hesitated in the doorway, taking in Feldspar’s painted sigil, and the several other sigils and runes he now noticed were carved into the door’s wood. The Creek had truly mastered not only the forest’s protective spells, but several from human tradition as well. “One last thing,” Kyle requested, turning back to look at his closest allies.

            “Yes?” said Thresher.

            “I have to ask. Why the codenames? Why Feldspar and Thresher? Rather archaic, don’t you think?”

            The Creek looked at each other and smiled. “We’d be too exposed,” said the one who called himself Feldspar, “if we were to use our real names.”

            “We like our privacy,” his partner added. “And besides, the archaic names lend to a bit of mystery. Make people think we live in a cave.”

            Kyle flushed with embarrassment. “I’m… yes. Well,” he said.

            “No harm done, sire,” said Thresher. “Please visit when you can, now that you know the way.”

– – –

            When Kyle returned to the palace, after maneuvering again among the tree branches and spires, he slipped back in through the window, set Thresher’s basket of goods upon his desk, and listened at the door for any activity from the halls. Mercifully, there was silence, and no notes had been slipped under his door. Kyle wondered if anyone at all was even the least bit concerned with Ike’s whereabouts, or if all talk had turned to Kyle’s health.

            He decided that he did not care, and would continue to plot a counterattack best he could in the time he had provided himself.

            If war came, he would have absolute power over his council; even if not, he would be twenty soon enough. Either way, Kyle would soon be in an excellent position to test the true mettle of his councilors; would soon be able to craft a court much more to his liking, one woven through trust and common sense.

            Kyle took a bit of time to unpack the basket Thresher had put together, glad that he would not even need to leave his bedchamber for food for a while. Tucked in among the bread, meat, cheese and other goods were three corked bottles. One was mead, one contained tea leaves, and one had a note tied round the neck with twine.

            Curious, Kyle unfurled the note. In Thresher’s script, it read: _A salve of the forest. For your highness, should you and your knight find yourselves in the same position of pleasure that Feldspar and I have. If such a gift is not too forward._

            Kyle flushed and buried the bottle underneath two loaves of bread in an embarrassed hurry. He glanced over both shoulders before remembering that he was very well alone, then covered his mouth to keep quiet a short burst of laughter. Carefully, he took out the little bottle again, glanced over at the door, then stepped lightly over to the bookshelf nearest his bed, where he hid the bottle behind a few tomes.

            He started to stand back up, then let himself hesitate as he knelt at the squat little bookshelf. Kyle could still remember when he was just barely taller than the little shelf, when it was stacked with books of fairy tales and early magical primers. Now it was filled with histories, books of sigils and spells copied down in his own hand, a few fictions and plays, and two volumes that had sat on the lowest shelf for at least eleven years. One was a book of fairy tales that Kyle and Stan both still loved, and one was the Human-Elven translation guide that the two had referenced often in the earliest years of their friendship.

            Kyle smiled, glanced fondly over the spine of every book on the shelf, blushed when he remembered the ‘gift’ from the Creek that he had stashed away behind them, then stood and returned to his desk.

            With renewed resolve from his visit to the Creek, Kyle sat down, opened up a book on protective magic, selected a bit of bread and cheese from Thresher’s basket, and went back to reading.

            His ward was safe. His knight was on a quest. And despite the previous evening’s revelations, Kyle would do whatever it would take to keep his kingdom from coming to harm.

* * *

            When Kyle was six, he visited the northern elven kingdom with his parents, and while at first he was awestruck by the court riding elk instead of horses, he quickly tired of the cold climate. He curled up next to his mother on a sledge ride from the capitol gates to the northern palace in the mountains and watched his breath form in front of him. His mother’s hands were always warm from her flame magic, and helped Kyle feel at ease.

            “How much longer?” Kyle asked.

            “We’re nearly there,” said his mother.

            “But you said that _forever_ ago.”

            The Queen laughed, and patted Kyle’s head. He nuzzled into her robe. The royal family had been gifted beautiful, thick new robes of their customary crimson in advance of their journey, and for that Kyle was grateful, but he still didn’t like the cold on his face. “Mother?” Kyle asked.

            “Yes, dear?”

            “Why are we here?”

            “We’re here for some very important business, Kyle,” said the Queen. “Someday, you will be King, and there will be decisions to make. Some are easy, some are hard, but you must weigh them all for good or ill. You’ll learn in time that some decisions can seem very difficult, but they will be of great benefit to you.”

            “Like what?”

            “Kyle,” said his father, the King, setting a hand on Kyle’s back. “Do you remember when you told us you’d like to have a sibling?”

            Kyle gasped and sat up. He kept close to his mother’s warmth, but turned his head to look up at his father. “Yes?” he said expectantly.

            “Your mother and I were very lucky to have you,” Kyle’s father said. “But fate decreed that you would be our only child.”

            Kyle’s heart sank. “But I thought…” he began.

            “It’s all right,” said the King. “A new Prince was born here in the north, and for the sake of diplomacy, we are here to bring him back with us.”

            Kyle lit up. “Really?” he asked. “I get to have a brother?”

            “He’ll be our ward,” said the Queen. “But you may think of him however you wish.”

            “Ward?” asked Kyle.

            “Someone in our care, who will be raised up in the palace court.” Kyle looked up at his mother, asking with his eyes for more of an explanation. The Queen patted back her son’s hair and said, “We love you very much. You are our son and one true heir. Always know that.”

            “Okay,” Kyle said.

            “This is for diplomacy,” his father reiterated calmly. “We have excellent relations with our cousins here in the north. This arrangement will fortify both of our kingdoms.”

            “How?” Kyle wanted to know.

            “We will have their aid, and they ours,” his father explained.

            “For what? War? There’s no war.”

            “You can never be unprepared, Kyle.”

            “Yes, Father,” Kyle said. He paused a moment, considering the prospect of becoming a brother. “When will we meet him?” he asked, meaning his parents’ ward.

            “Very soon,” his father promised.

            But once Kyle met Ike for the first time, he was unimpressed. Ike was a baby; Kyle didn’t want to have a baby around. He stood dutifully at his parents’ side as the King and Queen of the northern kingdom presented the young Prince to them, and followed his mother into her guest chambers afterward. He sat in the corner with a book and looked up occasionally, watching her tend to the baby until she set him down into a cradle and beckoned Kyle to her.

            Kyle folded his arms on the side of the cradle and looked down at the sleeping baby. “He’s too small,” Kyle said. “I want someone I can play with. I want an older brother instead.”

            “Kyle,” his mother scolded gently.

            Cautiously, Kyle looked up at her, and his ears drooped. “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “It’s all right, dear,” said his mother. She walked to him and knealt down, putting her arms around him. Kyle sighed and rested his head in the crook of his arm. “Sometimes we all must make adjustments, but it will be for the best. You know, you’ll be able to teach little Ike many things as you both grow up. I’m sure he’ll look up to you.”

            “Maybe,” Kyle mumbled.

            An attendant called for the Queen, and she kissed Kyle’s hair and rose. “Spend some time with him,” she advised Kyle. “You’ll see that things aren’t as bad as you may think.”

            “Okay,” Kyle said with a sigh.

            When his mother left with her attendant, Kyle continued looking down at the baby. “So it seems you’re coming home with us, Ike,” Kyle said. The baby only continued to sleep. “You know,” Kyle said, “you aren’t much fun. But I suppose babies aren’t. Maybe you will be.”

            Ike stirred, and opened his eyes, and looked up at Kyle.

            Kyle gasped. “Did I wake you up?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. Um…”

            Ike didn’t make a sound, but Kyle still feared he might cry.

            Thinking quickly, Kyle held his right hand down into the cradle. “Um, I’m Kyle,” he said. He scrunched his mouth to one side in contemplation, then took baby Ike’s right hand between his thumb and forefinger to shake it. Ike closed his fist around Kyle’s index finger and did not let go.

            “Uh…” Kyle said. He looked behind him, but his mother was still out of the room. He looked back down into the cradle, and sighed, letting Ike hold on. “I’m Kyle,” he said again. “You’re my parents’ ward, so I’m not sure what that makes you to me. I guess you’re my ward, too. So I guess I must take care of you.”

            Ike looked up at Kyle again, and this time, Kyle smiled back. “I wonder if you’ll be a conjurer,” Kyle said. “I’m sure I could teach you. I’m already learning. I’m very good at writing, too. I’ll also teach you that, I suppose. It’s a good thing I’m older than you. I’ll always be smarter than you.”

            When Kyle’s mother returned to the room, Kyle was still talking away to Ike, and did so until the Queen’s attendant led Kyle away to bed. Kyle was nearly asleep when his mother entered his guest chamber and sat at his bedside.

            “Mother?” Kyle asked.

            “Did I wake you, dear?” asked his mother. “I’m sorry.”

            Kyle shook his head. “I’m awake,” he said, and yawned.

            His mother smoothed back his hair. “Are you feeling a little better,” she asked, “about our ward?”

            “I think so,” said Kyle. “I think I might like to teach him some of the things I know.”

            “That’s wonderful, Kyle,” his mother said. She paused, then added, “Kyle, there are some things that I must teach you in time, as well.”

            “Like what?” Kyle asked. “Flame magic?”

            “Yes, my darling. Among other things.”

            “Other things?” Kyle sat up a little. “King stuff?” he guessed.

            His mother smiled. “In a way, yes,” she said. She bent and kissed his forehead. “It’s all for another time. You’ll learn when you’re older.”

            Kyle yawned again, and settled back against his pillows, and took hold of his mother’s left hand in both of his. He admired her emerald ring, which always seemed to carry the light of the forest with it, then closed his eyes and said, “I love you, Mother.”

            “And I love you, my son,” she returned. And Kyle heard her add, before sleep came, “Just as you are.”

* * *

            The following morning, as he prepared for the day, Kyle twisted his mother’s ring around on his finger and thought about hiding it. He thought about lying and saying he lost it.

            He did not want to give it to Princess Kenny, and in a few short days, he would be expected to. He had not relinquished it once, not even come close. It was his. Kenny had barely _known_ Kyle’s mother. She wouldn’t care about the ring. She wouldn’t know.

            Kyle kissed the ring and paced about his bedchamber, silently reinforcing his shielding spell. Ike was safe, and he had seen to that. Stan was safe, and the Creek had seen to that.

            But how safe was Kyle?

            If the Princess knew about Kyle’s lineage, about his human grandmother, what could she possibly want to do with that information? A sinkhole opened up in Kyle’s stomach as he paced.

            Then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and sat down at his desk chair. That… that couldn’t have been the truth that had made Stan leave…?

            Kyle shook his head. No, what Stan knew must have been valuable information about the Princess or her paladin. Stan would not abandon Kyle, not for anything. Kyle drew a breath and let it out slowly. Stan did everything to protect Kyle, and leaving had been no exception.

            Kyle slumped forward over his knees and held his head in his hands. He could not bear this much longer. The wedding was days away, and Stan had not returned. It had been weeks since he’d had a proper conversation with Stan.

            He had never had the opportunity to apologize for losing his temper and issuing a command that night in the stables. Kyle felt awful about that night still, and feared he always would.

            He shook thoughts of that night from his mind, and focused instead on the ways things might still go right. And in doing so, he thought of the Creek’s cottage. He thought of how delightful such a life might be, living on his own terms with the man he loved.

            Kyle’s heart began pounding, and he rested a hand over it, feeling it beat. And in that very instant, Kyle began to make peace with his family’s reality. He had elven eyes gifted with Sight, but his heart was human. He required longer hours of sleep because of it, he had been ill once and could yet fall ill again. He would very likely continue to age in human years and, if he lived a natural life, would die from it. He would be outlived by the majority of his kingdom and his council. But all of this meant that he could walk a parallel line with Stan.

            Kyle had indeed wondered why his youth had never stalled, but he was glad it hadn’t. He would not have given up his childhood and adolescence with Stan for anything. And Kyle had harbored a fear, which he had never told Stan, never told anyone, and that was the fear of outliving his dearest friend by possible decades. And now that fear was gone.

            With that fear gone, Kyle looked for strength.

            He brushed a few of his tangled curls behind his left ear and paused a second, touching the tip of it. He had his father’s elven ears, yes… but he had his mother’s hair. No other elf had that flame red shade of hair, and now Kyle knew why. Kyle had his mother’s hair, and he was proud of it.

            He also had her flame magic.

            And hadn’t Stan sent word through Feldspar that Kyle was to stoke his flame?

            That meant a battle was coming, and Stan would return before it could break out. He would not leave Kyle to face a battle alone.

            Kyle stood with resolve and twitched his fingers through the air, again doubling his protective spell. He kissed his mother’s ring once more before donning his crimson robe.

            Princess Kenny would not so much as touch that ring, Kyle would see to that. And she would not use his blood against him. Ready to face whatever the day would bring, Kyle left his bedchamber with a new sense of pride, and ever stronger faith that Stan would soon return.

            The King and his knight would go into battle together, or not at all.

– – –


	10. X. The Baron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan meets his long-lost sister, and makes a decision that will impact the outcome of his quest.

            Stan stood dumbfounded in the hall of the manor, unable to move. He simply stared at the girl who had called him a _lord_ and tried to breathe normally. Stan had forgotten practically everything of his early childhood, but he knew for a fact that he had not come from wealth. The girl must have been mistaken, he thought. Perhaps someone named Shelley lived here, but she was not his sister. Perhaps he didn’t have a sister at all, or if he did, she went by another name.

            “What’s wrong, my lord?” asked the girl.

            Stan’s eyes stung, and he drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I am who you want me to be.”

            “But of course you are,” the girl said.

            “I’m sorry,” Stan repeated. “I should go.”

            “Oh, please stay, my lord. Only for a moment. I promise your journey will be worthwhile.”

            Stan looked around at the lavish hall, and felt his heart sink. He’d come this far. He’d visited five of the seven villages on Clyde’s map and come up with so little. He may as well ask his questions of the lady of the house and be on his way. And yet, in Stan, a small glimmer remained. _But suppose…_ he thought, and stopped right there.

            “Very well,” Stan decided.

            The girl smiled and beckoned him further down the hall. She stopped in front of an open door at the end of it, and knocked twice before entering.

            “My lady Shelley?” said the girl. Stan rolled back his shoulders, feeling tense. Suppose Feldspar was wrong. But Feldspar was never wrong, and Stan was quite sure that it was Feldspar’s own sister who tended to this estate.

            “Yes, Tricia?” a woman’s voice came from within.

            “You have a caller.”

            “Send them away, I’m quite busy.”

            “I believe you’ll want to meet this one.”

            “How so?”

            The girl, Tricia, looked back at Stan, and stepped to the side of the doorframe to permit him inside the library. He steeled himself, tucked his helm under one arm, and walked forward until he had just crossed the threshold to a modest but beautiful room lined with shelves of books, and marked in the center by a large square desk, covered in a map of the realms and several leaflets and open books, ledgers, and journals. At the back of the room was a window that kissed the ceiling, beaming light throughout the floor and walls.

            Standing at the center table with her back to the door was a woman who could not have been more than a few years older than Stan, draped in a long yellow dress, with her chestnut hair sitting half in a slept-in bun at the top of her head, and half spilling down her back.

            Tricia spoke: “May I present Sir Stanley of Larnion.”

            “Sir… what…?” asked the woman.

            She turned slowly, took one look at Stan, and promptly dropped the cup of tea she was holding and cried out in alarm. The teacup shattered and the woman’s hands flew to her mouth, her dusk blue eyes open wide and threatening tears.

            Something pricked at the back of Stan’s mind, like a needle trying to perform a stitch in a stubborn cloth. Yes… he had a sister. He once had had a sister. Still, he had a sister. She had taught him how to lace up his boots. She had also taught him how to hide.

            Stan tried to speak, but faltered. He gathered himself and managed after a second try, “My… my lady Shelley, I—”

            “A ghost,” Shelley said into her hands. She stepped forward twice, the skirt of her dress dragging across her spilled tea, and then stopped. She lowered her hands and clutched her chest. “I’m seeing a ghost.”

            “I…” Stan tried, not knowing what to say.

            Shelley stepped forward again, carefully, and said, “But no… oh, my little ghost, you have grown up. You are all grown up. You’re alive…?”

            She flew the rest of the way to Stan and threw her arms around him. Stan tensed, and his breath caught. He had never been embraced by anyone but Kyle.

            Shelley stood back, and drew back her hands to once again clutch her chest. She looked into Stan’s face, then examined all of him, his height, his clothing. “A knight,” Shelley said, scarcely above a whisper. “Little ghost, you’ve made yourself a knight.” She smiled, sadly at first, and then broadly. “Sit with me a while?” she requested. “I wish to know everything.”

– – –

            Stan told Shelley of his life in the elven court, and praised Kyle as much as he could without revealing his love. For Shelley’s sake, Stan focused his story more on his duties as a knight, which only made him yearn for home.

            He then recalled his early life for his older sister as best he could, beginning with his earliest memory of falling out of a carriage and hiding from wolves. “And it was you,” Stan said, studying his sister’s face, recognizing her as indeed a relative, as his own flesh and blood. “You taught me how to hide. Why?”

            “Our father was not a good man, I’m ashamed to say,” Shelley told him. “He would make deals with other wicked men that would come to drunken brawls, and you and I were told to stay out of the way. That, Stanley, is why I taught you how to hide.”

            “Oh,” Stan said plainly. “Then… how did you come by all of this?” He looked about the room, but meant in a broader sense the estate itself.

            “This is… this is our mother’s land,” Shelley said. She looked down at her hands, where they were folded in her lap. “When you were small—my goodness, it’s been a dozen years, by now—our mother took us and fled from the Midlands with what money she had stored away. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start anew. Not long after we settled in this kingdom, she sent you away with some of the other boys from the village we lived in then to a school further north.” Shelley’s eyes watered. “I understand, now. The shortest path must have cut through the elven woods, and you say you were thrown from the carriage…”

            “Yes,” Stan said, finding that his throat was dry.

            “And that is that,” Shelley said, trying not to shed more tears. “When you did not send letters, we thought perhaps it was due to the school’s demands. When you did not return in the summer, our mother asked after you, and received word at last that you had never arrived at the academy. It had been months by then, Stanley. We had no means nor case for searching after you. You were declared dead. You… you have to understand. Please forgive us for not—”

            “It’s all right,” Stan assured her. He discovered that, somehow, he was smiling. “The life that I fell into is one that I would not trade for all the world. But tell me about you. Please, I… I barely remember you. I do not know you now.”

            Shelley nodded, tried to fix her messy bun, then gave up and took a sip of the fresh tea that Tricia had brought in for them both. “I went to school in your stead, and studied the laws of the realm. I still do, to pass my time. I was just comparing treatises when you walked in. Our mother remarried, as you can see. We were so fortunate, despite losing you. My new father was kind. He was older; he met our mother when she was working to provide services for those less fortunate and was struck by her generosity. He’s two years gone, now, but we were quite happy for a good many years as a family. It was nearly a year after he died that we lost the farmland that now lies just beyond our estate. We once had much more land, you see.”

            Stan nodded numbly and tried some of his own tea, unused to the delicate porcelain in which the drink had been served. He wondered what it might have been like to grow up in a manor, on acres of his own land, drinking out of porcelain. He didn’t care for it, he realized. He preferred his life of learning to use the Sight in the thick elven forests, training at swordplay, and dancing and laughing and growing up with Kyle.

            “He was a baron,” Shelley said.

            Stan choked on his tea, and set the cup down with unpracticed elegance. He made himself swallow the drink, and coughed, not wanting Tricia to have to clean up any more spilled tea.

            “Stanley?” Shelley asked.

            “He—he what? He was… that makes our mother…?” Stan managed as he regained his breath.

            “Yes, our mother is now the benefactor of this estate, still holding the title of baroness despite our reduced—Stanley, are you all right?”

            Stan coughed a few more times, but only because he now wanted to take deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He stared at the floor and reconsidered porcelain cups.

            Even if his father was disgraced, Stan was the son of a woman who had become a baroness. A baroness whose servant had called him _lord,_ unprompted. Stan’s eyes itched, and he held his hands over his mouth and realized he was trembling.

            “Are you well?” Shelley asked. “Do you need to lie down? It’s getting late. We can continue talking in the morning. Please stay, Stanley. Our mother will be returning from her trip tomorrow evening.”

            “I… I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Stan said.

            “Intrude?” Shelley repeated. Her eyes were sad. “Oh, Stanley, no, you are my brother. This is your home. Or, it well could be, if you wish it.”

            Stan’s breath caught. If he stayed here, with his sister and mother, he would become an heir to a considerable amount of land. Shelley thought it small, but to Stan it was an expanse. He would have an inheritance, and, most importantly, a title… one high enough to make him a contender to marry royalty. One that would make him a suitable challenger to Princess Kenny, should he ask for Kyle’s hand before time ran out.

            Stan had a few days left, and still no solid proof of the Princess’s falsehood, of why a dragon had taken her place. It would only take a day to draft and sign the papers that would once again make him his mother’s son, if the opportunity presented itself. It would only take a day for him to denounce his title as a knight and become a baron. All so quickly, all so easily. On parchment.

            “At the very least,” said Shelley, “stay for the night, and allow me to show you the grounds in the morning? I’ve often wondered what it might be like to still have my brother around, and here you are, alive and well. And regardless, you are our guest, and we’ve plenty of room.”

            Stan looked at her, and tried to recall their brief childhood together. From the small fragments of memory he could recall, Shelley had had a hardness to her as a young girl, from always being on her guard in the Midland territory where the siblings had been born. But, as fortunate circumstances had found Stan, so too had they found Shelley, and she had grown into a woman who was earnest and studious, and, above all, welcoming.

            “Yes,” Stan said, his throat dry again. “All right. For tonight.”

            “It’s settled, then!” Shelley declared. She stood, and continued, “I’ll have Tricia prepare you a room. Doesn’t your servant want to come inside? We have ample quarters. We haven’t needed more than Tricia and a cook in the house in so long, so it will be—”

            Stan laughed. “I don’t have a servant,” he said.

            “No? Who’s the man outside with the horses?”

            “That’s just Clyde. Clyde isn’t a… well… let me ask him,” Stan decided.

            “Very well,” said Shelley, smiling. Stan stood as well, and his sister gently squeezed his arm. “It is so good to have you home, Stanley,” she said. “It’s wonderful to know you’re well.”

            Stan smiled for her. “Likewise,” he said. “Thank you for welcoming me.”

            Shelley squeezed his arm again, then left the room to find Tricia. Stan took another glance around the ornate library, gathered up his helm, and made for the stables to find Clyde, his head buzzing.

            Clyde was just snuffing out his pipe at the outer stable wall when Stan approached, and the ranger glanced up. “Where to, Sir?” Clyde asked.

            “I’m staying,” Stan said, the words spilling out of him rather flatly.

            “I’m sorry?”

            “I’m staying for now,” said Stan, trying to regulate his breath. “The women of this manor are very hospitable, much more than I could have imagined.”

            “A fine surprise.”

            “They think you’re my servant,” Stan said.

            “I can see why,” Clyde said.

            “So… making good on your oath to repay my King and myself, please pretend,” Stan asked.

            Clyde stared at him blankly. _“How?”_ he asked. “I’m a _ranger,_ need I remind you, Sir.”

            “It’s, uh… it’s _lord_ here,” Stan said with some rushed difficulty, and Clyde emitted a short but unsurprised laugh. “It seems my sister not only claims residence here, she is the rightful heir to it.” Stan could barely believe the words he was saying, despite his conversation with Shelley. “The land belongs to her—to _our_ mother, and… anyway, just… do this for me? I’m staying one night, and then I… well, then I need to decide what to do. You’ll have accommodations in the manor and…” Stan paused, then grinned. “And there is a very charming young woman inside who serves as the ladies’ maid, and I’m sure she would be more than interested in hearing the exploits of a ranger.”

            “You should have led with that,” Clyde said, lighting up. “All right, Sir. My lord,” he corrected, trying it out.

            Stan wondered if he could get used to being called _lord,_ after a lifetime of being so much less. He could not yet decide.

– – –

            Stan could not imagine how Shelley could think of the manor as anything less than extravagant. The room Tricia had prepared for him was nearly the size of the library. The bed was large and soft, the washing basin porcelain rather than tin. Next to the basin, Tricia had laid out shaving supplies for the morning; the razor’s handle was polished bone, and it was one of the most ornate things Stan had ever been given. Above the basin was a proper mirror, and Stan caught his reflection, feeling so out of place within those lavish walls.

            Tricia had also laid out night clothing for him atop a trunk at the foot of the bed. Heart pounding, mind racing, Stan undressed, washed at the basin, discarded the dirty water in the pail under the table, and put on the dressing-gown Tricia had left for him. He instinctively placed a dagger under his pillow, but lying down, he found that the mattress was so soft, he was afraid the blade would move about in the night. Compromising, he placed the dagger directly underneath him on the floor and against the wall, just out of sight.

            Stan’s head was spinning as he lay there on the fine mattress in the dark. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling until he covered his eyes with his hands, forcing them to close. He missed Kyle terribly; he missed his home in Larnion. His life had taken several unexpected turns over the past few days and weeks; this one felt both welcome and jarring, knowing that his mother had become a baroness. Knowing that his older sister was an honorable baroness herself. Knowing what that could mean for Stan.

            He shifted onto his side and measured his breaths to force himself to calm his racing heart and sleep. He could only do so when he convinced himself that he was indeed only a guest in the manor, and not the lord of it.

* * *

            On the day after Stan had met Kyle, when the were seven years old, Kyle had invited Stan with him to the dining hall as a guest for the morning meal. Stan watched the King and Queen and other nobles with reverence, caution, and patience, wanting to pick up quickly on any elven customs he might need to adhere to. Kyle had told Stan that he could become a page, his first step to becoming a knight, and Stan wanted to serve the kingdom that had saved him with honor.

            Despite a tutor’s advice against it, Kyle sat with Stan for the meal, and he had brought along a book that was nearly half Kyle’s height at the time—a guide to Human-Elven translations. Together, the two scoured the book for useful things Stan would need to know, and Stan carefully practiced a few greetings and phrases with Kyle, who joyfully complimented his new best friend with every correct pronunciation.

            Kyle was with him, too, when the King and Queen brought Stan to the knights’ barracks, up the hill on the palace’s northern side. After the Queen had said a few words to the elder knights on Stan’s behalf, Stan stepped forward and said, “Good morning,” to the knights in Elven, with a rather obvious learner’s accent.

            The knights appeared hesitant, but were clearly not going to back down from a request from their rulers. To prove himself, Stan said in Elven, “Thank you for giving me a chance.” It was one of the first phrases he had asked Kyle to translate for him that morning, and he had practiced it under his breath during the walk up the hill.

            The knights obliged, and Stan was given one hour to wait for a bunk assignment before reporting to his first lesson. Before he could leave, Kyle hugged Stan tightly and asked, “Do you think you’ll be happy?”

            Stan nodded, and when they stood back, he said, “Yes, I think so. Thank you, Kyle,” he added. “I promise I’ll do my best for your whole kingdom.”

            Kyle showed a bright smile, and reminded Stan, “Larnion.”

            “Yes,” Stan said. He smiled as well, and straightened his back proudly. “For Larnion.”

            Kyle placed his hands on Stan’s shoulders, and said, “It isn’t just my kingdom, or my father’s, or my mother’s. It’s yours, now, too, if staying here is truly what you wish.”

            Stan felt tears come to his eyes, but he held them back. “It is,” he said. “I don’t want to go back to the Midlands. I want to serve Larnion.” Stan managed another smile, and added, “Where I have a friend.”

            Kyle lit up, and hugged Stan again. “You will be a wonderful page, Stanley, I know it,” he said encouragingly. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said, standing back. “Perhaps we can practice more Elven.”

            “I’d like that,” Stan said. And then, in Elven, “Thank you.”

            After Kyle had gone back to the palace with his parents, Stan waited a while longer before one of the elder knights returned with a squire, who presented Stan with a bundle of new clothing and walked Stan further into the barracks. The squire was explaining something as they walked, but it was all in Elven, and Stan only thought he caught a word or two.

            “I’m sorry,” he said in his broken Elven to the squire. “I don’t speak much Elven yet.” That phrase was complicated, but Stan had asked Kyle to repeat it a few times for him that morning.

            The squire stopped and turned to look down at Stan, who tried to hold his ground. The squire looked at Stan’s ears, then said, “You speak Human, then?”

            “Yes,” Stan answered.

            “All right,” said the squire, continuing on. “You’ll need extra Elven lessons. You’re already behind.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t apologize unless you’re at reasonable fault.”

            “I understand,” Stan corrected.

            “Good.”

            Stan looked around as the squire continued leading him back, but was sure to listen. “We wake before dawn,” said the squire. “All of us. Your lessons will begin in the schoolhouse and end on the field. Can you read?”

            “A little.”

            “Good. Can you run?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. What’s your name?”

            “Stanley.”

            The squire stopped in front of a room toward the back of the barracks and turned to face Stan. “All right, Stanley,” the squire said. “Your bunk is the second on the left. Be dressed in uniform and lined up with the others before the afternoon lesson.”

            “I will,” Stan said.

            His heart was pounding as he entered the room, where six beds lined the walls, five of which showed only slight signs of having been slept in. Each bed had a small trunk beside it for clothes and other belongings, and Stan walked to the second on the left and filled what was now his trunk with what were now his clothes. He had dressed that morning in still more borrowed clothes from the palace, but he changed as instructed in his new page’s uniform.

            As he was lacing up his boots, he became aware of the five others in the room. All looked to be his age, and all were elves.

            “Oh, we _do_ have a sixth?” one of them said.

            “Where’d you come from?” another asked Stan.

            Stan looked up, surprised to hear them speaking Human; they must have noticed. “The Midlands,” Stan answered. “South.”

            “The _Midlands?”_ another of the boys complained. “You aren’t even from a human settlement in Larnion?”

            “No,” Stan said. “Why, is that bad?”

            “Who are your parents?”

            “I don’t know,” Stan said defensively.

            “What do you mean you don’t know? One of your parents must be a knight.”

            “I mean, I don’t know,” Stan said. He stood, and stared the elven boy down. “My father is gone, and my mother sent me away, and I don’t want to talk about them.”

            “Why were you dressed in a court robe walking in here, then?” the boy pushed on.

            “Because the Prince is my friend,” Stan said firmly.

            The other five were all silent until one said, “I think you’re lying.”

            “I’m not,” Stan said.

            “How would a human from the Midlands know the Prince?” the other boy said.

            “I just got lucky,” Stan said, realizing it was the truth. “That’s all.”

            “Who are your parents, really?” another boy asked.

            “I don’t know,” Stan repeated strongly, “and I don’t care.”

            He left the room in order to stand out in the hall and be the first in the lineup before the afternoon lesson. He looked around at some of the squires making the rounds, and stood at attention like them. He stared straight forward at the wall. Faced with silence, he tried to think about the last things his mother had said to him. And, at the same time, he tried not to think about his mother.

            She had sent him away. When he had asked her why, he could recall her saying, “It’s what’s best for you, Stanley,” and he hadn’t argued. But he could not remember what else she had said.

            Stan’s head still hurt from his fall out of the carriage, but he ignored the ache. His memories of the past few days were hazy, laced with fear of the unknown in the middle of the unfamiliar forest—fear which greatly overpowered the memories of his final days of living with his mother and sister. No one had come for him, until Kyle. Until he had met Kyle, and the fear ended, and hope began.

            Stan tried to push thoughts of his mother out of his head. It didn’t matter who his parents were. He knew he didn’t like his father. He knew his mother had sent him away. He started to hope that neither would come looking for him.

            Stan looked around the barracks again, and then down at his own brand new uniform. He had never been proud of anything before, he realized. Even if he got into arguments with the other pages, Stan didn’t care. Larnion was his home now, and he would protect it, as it had protected him.

            As days became weeks, Stan began to stop worrying that someone might come and try to fetch him away from the life he wanted to make for himself. As weeks became months, and his Elven vastly improved, his memories of what once was home became hazy and then distant; a foggy horizon he never truly took the time to search. As months became years, as Stan became well-trained in swordsmanship and chivalry, in his duties and in his Sight, it was clear that Larnion was meant to be his home.

            It was all he had ever known, and more than he could ever want. It had granted him the opportunity to serve a noble cause; to protect Larnion was to protect the very fabric of nature, the home of the most generous and powerful spirits in all of Zaron. It had given him a coveted rank of knighthood at a profoundly young age. It had granted him the greatest friendship he could ever have known. Stan owed his existence to the land that had saved his life, and he served it with pride and with honor. Never looking back.

* * *

            The room had thick curtains that had been pulled tight over the window, but Stan still rose just before dawn, feeling both well rested and sore from his inexperience with fine mattresses. He lay awake for several minutes, staring through the dark at the far wall, still unsure of what he would do.

            He had precious few days before the wedding. He needed a plan. He needed a sign, and one seemed to have dropped right in his lap. But he thought of what Kyle had so often said, about being given a title rather than earning one. There was rigidity. There were rules, incredibly strict ones at times. There were expectations that Stan could not currently begin to imagine. But this was his chance. This was _a_ chance, anyway.

            He did not know what to do.

            Stan hadn’t even noticed that he’d drifted back to sleep, for the first time he could ever recall doing so, until a knock sounded at his door. He was up in an instant, feeling for his dagger under the pillow. He remembered quickly, took it up from its new hiding place, and used his Sight to carry him across the long room to the door, where he heard the knock again.

            “My lord?” Clyde said from the other side. Stan let out a relieved sigh for hearing a familiar voice, but his heart felt strained at hearing that title first thing in the morning. In reference to Stan. “I, uh… I’m not great at this servant thing, but Tricia asked me to wake you? I guess?”

            Stan opened the door, pulled Clyde inside, then walked to the far back of the room to push open the curtains a little, since he knew Clyde could not see in the dark. Sunlight pooled in, covering the room in a warm golden glow. Stan glared at the pool of light underneath the window, and then at the curtains. He decided that he did not care for heavy curtains at all.

            “You’re a convincing enough servant,” Stan said, forcing himself to move. He walked back over to the bed and nearly stabbed the dagger into the wall, but thought again and set it on the wash table. “I… I hardly know what I’m doing, either, but I need some time to think. I don’t have much.”

            “To think about?”

            _“Time,”_ Stan snapped.

            “Oh,” said Clyde. Stan noticed only then that Clyde had been supplied new clothing in the form of a simple long-sleeved tunic and trousers, and that, surprisingly, Clyde had fully shaved. Or, more likely, that Tricia had suggested he do so.

            Clyde was also carrying a bundle of something, which, after a moment, he crossed the room to lay out, in a clearly instructed way, the articles of clothing that had made up the bundle. “What’s this?” Stan asked.

            “Gifts from Tricia,” Clyde said as he finished the task. “Or, rather, from your sister, my lord.”

            Stan flinched again at the title, but told himself to try to get used to it. “She didn’t… Tricia didn’t make new clothing for me in a single night…?” he asked.

            “Altered, I think she said,” Clyde said. He walked back to the front of the room to close the door, and stood in a clearly newly rehearsed way to the side of it. “She takes her job very seriously, my lord.”

            Stan glanced over at the clothing that Clyde had set atop the trunk, but couldn’t concentrate. He shook his head and let out an aggravated breath, running his hands back through his hair as he weighed his current options through his mind. He truly was running out of time.

            “Something wrong, my lord?” Clyde asked. He continued saying it, and yet Stan was not yet used to it.

            “Everything is wrong,” Stan answered. To occupy himself, he used the light in the room to wash and shave at the basin and mirror. The bone-handled razor was the straightest and keenest he had ever used. “The man I love,” he said, working out his thoughts aloud, “is supposed to marry a woman I know to be a dragon in a matter of days, and I am no closer now than I was two weeks ago to figuring out how I can defeat her. Turn around, I need to get dressed.”

            “Oh, that’s…” Clyde said with difficulty. “That’s something Tricia mentioned I was supposed to do.”

            Stan set down the razor, washed his face, and glared at Clyde. “I do not need help getting dressed,” Stan said sternly.

            “That’s something, for barons, though, right?” Clyde asked. “Noblemen.”

            Stan’s heart plummeted into his stomach at the word. He certainly did not feel like a nobleman. Perhaps he could, though, if it was his only chance to challenge the false Princess. If it was his only chance to be with Kyle. To be nearly equal to Kyle. “It shouldn’t be,” he muttered. “Please turn around.”

            “Suit yourself, my lord.”

            “Yes, that’s the point.”

            Clyde sort of laughed, and turned around to face the door.

            Stan walked around to the trunk at the end of the bed and started to pick up the clothes, instantly handling them with more care as his fingertips brushed the fabric. He stopped, and smoothed each piece back out. Everything— _everything_ reminded him of Kyle. The flowing sleeves and open collar of the stark white tunic, the fine trousers. The blue silk doublet.

            Stan knealt down at the trunk and stared for several seconds at the doublet. He ran his fingers down the hem gently, wondering what Kyle would think if he saw Stan wearing something like this. He might laugh. He would undoubtedly love it.

            Stan realized that he had not heard Kyle laugh in several weeks.

            He blinked out a couple of tears, swept them away, then stood and dressed as quickly as he could, fumbling with buttons and ties in places he was not used to buttons and ties being. He was especially careful with the doublet. Despite attending several court functions in his life, silk was still a finery not available to knights.

            Though he was not partial to the tunic’s cumbersome sleeves, Stan admired the fit and comfort of the doublet and trousers, even if the garments made him feel as though he should stand in an entirely different fashion than he was used to. He laced up the new black boots from his sister, then walked back to the side of the bed near the basin and said, “I’m finished.”

            He moved to collect the dagger he’d set beside the basin and tucked it into the top of his right boot, then stood up and rolled back his shoulders, feeling somewhat confined in his new clothing.

            Clyde had turned back to face him, and he asked, “Tricia said I should mention that she can make further alterations, if any were necessary.”

            “Everything is fine,” Stan said. “I think.”

            Stan walked back to the trunk at the foot of the bed and took up his belt to put it on, only to find that it did not fit right against the silk. He paused, held his belt, and sword attached, in both hands for a reverent moment, then relented and set them gently back down.

            “My sister called me a ghost,” he said, partially aloud to Clyde but mostly to himself. “I almost feel like one. A ghost inhabiting another man’s clothes, another man’s life. I can’t imagine this being me.”

            “Well,” Clyde said, “if there’s any worth to my opinion, my lord, you do look the part.”

            Stan scrutinized him for a few seconds, but Clyde simply pointed back toward the corner, indicating a full length mirror that Stan had not noticed before. Stan paused a moment, then steeled himself and crossed the room to face the long mirror.

            Upon seeing his own reflection, Stan gasped, felt his chest tighten, and took two steps back. He nearly wanted to look away, but found that he could not. His new clothes did indeed fit perfectly, the doublet clinging close to his slim silhouette, unburdened by the bulk of his usual knight’s uniform. Though he felt that everything, from his tunic to his boots, was far too fine, Stan could not deny that he could probably very well walk about in noble society and not look a bit out of place.

            He didn’t have to _feel_ noble, Stan thought… he simply had to play the part, and perhaps doing so could grant him opportunities he could never have, even as a high-ranking knight.

            Stan decided that he would consider it. He would sit to take the morning meal with his sister and consider, really consider becoming their mother’s son again after twelve years.

            If he could not vanquish the dragon as a knight, then perhaps he truly could challenge the Princess on the battlefield of love.

            Stan clenched his hands into fists with resolve. He took a deep breath and sighed it out, then slowly unfurled his fingers and drew up his hands to look down at his slightly trembling palms. They were rough from years of training, of fighting and swordplay and riding and heavy work, and they always would be. He thought about how soft Kyle’s hands were in comparison… the hands of a spellcaster, of true, beautiful, magical nobility… and how much Stan missed their touch.

            Anything, Stan told himself. He would do anything to save Kyle. Anything to keep the kingdom safe and well. Anything to return to the days of calling his dearest friend by name without consequence. Anything for a chance at love.

            Stan cast another wary glance at his reflection, then squared his shoulders and walked back to the front of the room. He was not entirely sure what to do with his hands, so he held them behind his back as he was accustomed to doing—perhaps he would ask Shelley later, he thought, what might be more becoming of… well, of a lord.

            “All right,” Stan said to Clyde, forcing strength to return to his voice to clear away his uncertainties. “Anything else that I should know? Is there anything else Tricia told you?”

            “Well, er…” Clyde glanced down and counted off on his fingers as he spoke: “I know that I, at least, am expected to brief you of morning news, for one, and then accompany you to the dining hall, and assist in serving the meal, and clear it off when you’re done, and… well, as far as things go for you, my lord, I think Lady Shelley will be your best source of information. Wait. Oh.”

            Clyde drew out a scrap of parchment from one of the pouches on his belt and read off of it. “Your duties are to see to the estate,” he said, squinting at his notes in the half light of the room. “Tomorrow is tax collection, so you’re to help your sister with the finances. And your mother is returning tonight. But beyond that, the day is yours to do with what you will.”

            “That’s all?” Stan asked.

            Clyde looked over the scrap of parchment again and confirmed, “That’s all.” He tucked the scrap away again.

            “All right…” Stan said doubtfully. He rarely had such ample free time built into a schedule. He shook his head, telling himself he might have to get used to it. “And what of the news?”

            “What?”

            “Any news to report?” Stan asked. “As you had mentioned.”

            “Oh,” Clyde said. “Well, there is, my lord, but I’m not sure you’ll be keen to hear it.”

            “Ah,” Stan said. His heart felt heavy. The news was clearly an announcement regarding Princess Kenny’s impending marriage. To Kyle. No, Stan could do without that news. “Yes, skip it,” he said. “Let’s move on.”

            Stan wanted the day to go well, and quickly. He needed something. He needed more than just the idea of hope that he could still save Kyle in time.

            Clyde then led Stan downstairs to a modest but lavishly carved dining hall, where Shelley was already sat at the wide table, reading a book. The room faced east, and the sun poured in through the four peaked windows far to Shelley’s left. Shelley lifted her head and brightened when Stan entered.

            “Good morning!” she greeted him. “Did you rest well? I see you received the clothing Tricia prepared for you. Is everything satisfactory?”

            “Yes, thank you,” Stan said to answer all of it. “Good morning.”

            Shelley smiled. “Oh, Stanley,” she said, “it’s been too many years since we’ve taken a meal together. You know, I awoke half believing I’d dreamt of your visit, and yet here you are. Sit, won’t you?”

            “Um… thank you,” Stan said, still feeling horribly out of place.

            Tricia said, “Good morning, my lord,” and then nodded over toward Clyde. Clyde, similarly out of place, cleared his throat, took the hint, and drew back the chair across the table from Shelley. Stan managed to continue through the prompt and sat, and right away, Tricia served the siblings each a plate of hot food, while Clyde set down cups of tea and water for Stan.

            “Thank you,” Stan said again. It was all he could really say. He glanced down at the food, then across the table at his sister. “What… please pardon my not knowing, but what is the human custom in the morning?” Stan asked.

            “Before the meal?” Shelley said, and Stan nodded. Shelley already had a fork in one hand. “Oh, well, nothing, really, unless you’ve not yet heard the news of the day.”

            “I—I have,” Stan said quickly.

            “Is there an elven custom you follow?” Shelley asked. “Or one of the court?”

            “Oh, it’s… it’s much the same,” Stan said. “The news of the day, and a moment of silence and an offering to the spirits.”

            “Offering to the spirits?”

            “Yes, like this,” Stan said. “Er…” He took up a roll of bread, ripped off a small piece, and set it to one side. Shelley smiled and followed suit.

            Shelley looked at the little pieces of bread, then asked in a whisper, “How are we to know when the spirits have accepted the offering?”

            “Ssh,” Stan requested. He fixed his Sight on the crumbs, and realized that the threads of this realm were much more difficult to discern. Even so, bit by bit, the pieces of bread were taken up into the threads, transferred from matter to energy.

            Shelley gasped and asked, “What happened?!”

            “The offering was accepted,” Stan said. “In the court, a full plate is usually prepared for the spirits.”

            “Is that what keeps your kingdom so rich with magic?” Shelley asked.

            “I can’t say for sure, as I’m not a sorcerer myself,” Stan said. “But the spirits look after our land, and therefore we look after them.”

            Shelley beamed, a scholar eagerly taking in this new information. “How absolutely delightful,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever read of anything quite like that.”

            Stan smiled, and then told himself to give some thought to the human customs now being presented to him. Or, well, the customs of human nobility.

            Stan stared down at his plate and the cutlery beside it. He could not tell the difference between the two forks, and worried that the second he raised his wrists he’d drag the long sleeves of his tunic over the plate. Stan lifted his eyes to watch his sister, paying attention to the way she held her elbows and the light grip she kept on her utensils. Knowing that he must consider all things when entertaining the notion of becoming again a part of his mother’s household, Stan copied Shelley’s motions as best he could, and since neither Shelley nor Tricia reacted, he thought he must have passed rather well.

            After the meal, Shelley offered to show Stan the manor, and the surrounding land and gardens. True to his station, Stan waited for her at the doorway and offered her his left arm. “What’s this?” Shelley wondered.

            “Oh, ah… you’re a lady,” Stan said. “It’s customary for a knight to accompany a lord or lady for just such an occasion.”

            Shelley hid a laugh, then graciously took her brother’s offered arm, placing her hands just below his elbow. “Even though I am the one showing you around?” she asked.

            “An escort does not necessarily lead,” Stan said. “It’s my duty to protect, and to follow.”

            “Very well, little ghost,” Shelley said with a smile. “Follow me.”

            Stan took in the vast and quiet manor as Shelley toured him through the halls of the the second storey, and then back down to the first. It was beautiful, and Stan told his sister such; tapestries hung on many walls, and despite Tricia being the only caretaker of the interior, the manor was clean and orderly. Stan did wonder how it could be that Feldspar’s sister, if that was indeed who Tricia was, had chosen such a different sort of life than her rogue brother, but it was not his place to want to pry. Besides, Stan could barely envision embodying the life of a baron, thus affirming a disconnect between himself and his own long-lost sister.

            But Stan was very grateful to know her again at last. Surprising as her life, and the life of their mother, was, Stan understood now why Feldspar had told him the journey would be worth the trip. It wasn’t only about status. It was about giving Stan back some of his past… something he need not feel ashamed for.

            Concluding Shelley’s tour of the first storey was a large parlor, with beautiful walls showing the handiwork of the stonecutters who had built the manor, as well as still more tapestries and a number of paintings. Shelley pointed out with some embarrassment which weavings and paintings she had done herself, and Stan complimented her art.

            But above the fireplace at the far end of the room hung a large portrait that gave Stan pause. He stared up at it, and Shelley patted his shoulder as she followed his gaze.

            The portrait showed three people. There was a man standing, with grey hair and a full beard, with one hand resting on the top of a chair that centered the portrait. To the other side of the chair stood a younger Shelley, in her mid teenage years, it seemed, shown with a smile and wearing a light blue dress. And in the center, seated in the chair, was a beautiful woman in a dress so dark blue it was nearly black, with greying brown hair and dusk blue eyes, and red lips painted into a line. Her left hand held Shelley’s on one arm of the chair, and her right hand was upturned and empty on the other.

            Stan heard himself say, “Oh…” as tears rushed to his eyes. He looked down and away to gather himself, but the portrait spoke volumes that he could not unsee.

            “Oh… oh, Stanley, I’m sorry,” his sister said soothingly. “I’m so sorry. Here. Let’s step outside. You need air.”

            “Is that our mother?” Stan asked before he could move.

            “Yes,” Shelley confirmed. “Brother, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to upset you.”

            “I’m not—I’m not upset,” Stan said, though he wondered if that was true. “I only… why was her hand painted like that? Like she’s holding something that isn’t there?”

            Shelley turned to clasp both of Stan’s shoulders, and she said with tears in her eyes, “Stanley, please, you must understand, we thought that you were dead. You would have been twelve or thirteen when that portrait was done. She hadn’t stopped mourning you.”

            “And has she now?” Stan dared to ask. “Stopped mourning me?”

            “Oh, little ghost, I don’t believe she has,” said Shelley. “But you are alive, and you are home at last.”

            Stan steadied his breath, and looked up again at the portrait over the fireplace. A sting hit his chest, but he could not make that woman’s face manifest anywhere in his memories. Not clearly, at least. His sister was calling Stan a ghost, but his mother was a ghost to him. She had been there once, and then she was gone from his life, just as he was from hers. Gone, but, as her upturned hand signified, not forgotten.

            But the baroness’s hand was open for the Stan that would have grown up alongside Shelley; for the Stan accustomed to silk and fine utensils, who may very well have never held a sword or learned to speak Elven, or fallen in love.

            And this was not, as Shelley had called it, home. Not to Stan. How could he even begin to make it so?

            Stan shook his head and said, “May we go outside? The air would do me good. You’re right.”

            “Of course,” Shelley said. “Come, come. We’ll talk of other things.”

            She linked her arm with his again, and they left the room, but Stan still felt a weight on his chest as they passed through the lavish halls of the manor. Stan could not imagine living there, still. He could not imagine having so few duties to speak of in a day, or calling that place home. But what else could he do? His options were few and the days were closing in.

            The siblings stepped out into the warm spring air, and Shelley directed Stan down a path to the left, which wound about the property and would give them, she said, a leisurely stroll. Beyond the manor lay a large field, and situated at the far end of it was a small orchard, which Shelley said lay within her mother’s property.

            “Shelley,” Stan asked as they walked, “you are well-read. Can you read Elven?”

            “Oh, I can, yes,” Shelley said. “The modern much more than the ancient, but I’ve a tutor who helps me to read sigils in some of the books I come across. I’m afraid I speak it with an accent, though, but I can try. Do you prefer speaking Elven? Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

            “I… I do, but it’s all right,” Stan said. “I’m fluent in Human, as well. It’s often quite a mix of both, in the palace.”

            “The palace!” Shelley echoed. “Is that where you live? How exciting.”

            “I do,” Stan confirmed, and felt himself smile. “I’m Captain of the Guard. As such, I have had my quarters in the palace for some time, now.”

            “Oh, what a life you have had, Stanley,” Shelley said. “I’m so proud to hear it.”

            Proud? That was new, from anyone but Kyle. “Thank you,” Stan managed.

            They walked on for several paces more, and Shelley pointed out more of her mother’s borders. But conversation soon turned again as Stan’s sister’s curiosity grew.

            “Tell me,” Shelley asked, “is there a lady in your life? Anyone you fancy? I’m sure being a knight, you must have—”

            “No, ah… no lady,” Stan answered quickly. “I don’t think I could carry on with a lady even if I tried.”

            “I see. A gentleman, then?” Shelley wondered. Stan blushed, and Shelley laughed a little. “You’re blushing, little ghost,” she said. “Who is he? Are you betrothed? Is he a fine elven warrior? A brave fellow knight?”

            “Brave he is, yes,” Stan told his sister, his eyes on the horizon. From the direction of the sun, he knew that he was facing toward Kyle’s kingdom. Toward—yes, toward home. Toward what still and always would be home. “And an elf, that’s also true. And wise, and kind, and beautiful as the sky itself when the sun rises and sets. But he’s of noble class, and I have no more rungs to climb. I could never be suited to marry him. Not as a knight.”

            “Nonsense,” Shelley said. “You know, I never understood why knights were not considered more noble.”

            “We own nothing of value but our virtue,” Stan said. “No land, no livestock. We serve our kingdom, and it in turn provides us with what we need. We are well trusted and well paid, but it’s highly unusual for a knight to purchase land. We may be given a few acres when we marry, sure, but until then, our home is communal. Nothing that can be called solely ours.”

            “Ridiculous,” Shelley commented. “For all your bravery, is land ownership everything?”

            “It is on parchment,” Stan said, dejected.

            Shelley stopped walking, and surveyed her mother’s land. “Suddenly,” she said, “these orchards don’t seem so small.”

            Stan looked at his sister for a moment. He had known her only a day, and already she cared for him as her family. He wondered if their mother would be so accepting. And he wondered what Kyle would think. Of Stan’s sister, of Stan’s mother… of the land he stood on and of the fortune that had found Stan’s family after he had fallen into the elven forest. Stan followed Shelley’s gaze and looked out over the fields.

            And he looked to the threads between the trees. It was harder with an orchard than it was with a forest. The human kingdom was less prone to magic, Stan realized. Sight was hardly an asset here unless the magic was more concentrated. Stan looked back over his shoulder, in the direction of the Elven Kingdom, instantly aware of the more shimmering threads.

            Shelley turned with him, looked up at Stan, and then out over the fields, clearly seeing nothing. She looked up at her brother again, then patted his arm and said, “Come. Let’s go back inside. Tricia will be preparing tea.”

            “Oh,” Stan said, starting a measured pace back to the manor. “I’m sorry, Shelley. My mind is in too many places.”

            “Hmm.”

            They walked in silence for a moment, and then Shelley asked, “Stanley, what brought you here?”

            “What?” Stan asked abruptly. “The… the need to meet you. I always knew I had had a family from the Midlands, but I had forgotten you by my third year in the court. To learn that you were still alive, I—”

            “Yes, but _how?”_ Shelley wondered. “And why? A knight of importance such as yourself can’t simply come by such information in passing.”

            “No, that’s true,” Stan admitted.

            “What brought you out here? Are you on a quest?”

            “You could say that, yes,” Stan told her.

            “Oh, how delightful,” Shelley said with a smile. She rested her head on Stan’s shoulder. “My brother, the knight, on a quest! It’s the stuff of stories. I’m so happy I could meet you. And I certainly do hope that if you are on a quest for love, as it rather seems you are, that perhaps I can help you.”

            Stan’s heart skipped. “What?” he asked.           

            “Well,” said Shelley, “circumstances being what they are, Stanley, you _are_ the son of a baroness. Could that not lean to your advantage, for your love?”

            Stan’s chest felt tight, and he felt his pace slow, shocked a bit from his sister’s choice of words. He had longed for quite some time to call Kyle not his _lord_ but his _love,_ openly and always. But his status, his station, had been constantly remembered to him by Kyle’s council, making such things seem as far and distant as a dream. Never before had a knight married a nation’s ruler.

            “I do not feel noble, sister,” Stan said, when words came to him after taking pause. “But I would do anything for him. I would be anything for him. I love him.”

            “And this gentleman of yours,” Shelley asked kindly, “does he love you, too?”

            Stan nodded. “He does.”

            They had made it back to the manor, where Tricia opened the door for them and welcomed them both home as her lord and her lady. Stan nodded to thank her, and Shelley led Stan back to the library.

            Once inside, Shelley closed the door, and set her hands on Stan’s arms. “It’s settled, then,” she said. “Please become my brother again, Stanley. I’ll draft up the papers for you, and you can sign them with our mother as soon as she returns home.”

            “Is this not highly improper of me?” Stan wondered. “Becoming a lord just to woo a man?”

            “He can’t be just any man, for you to turn as red as that, Stanley,” Shelley pointed out.

            Stan stood back, embarrassed, and cleared his throat. He looked around at the library and felt rather dizzy. His entire world, his entire life was spinning. But he had so few options. How could he show his face in the kingdom again if he had no means at all of saving Kyle from marrying a dragon?

            Stan sought out a chair and sat down, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. The unfamiliar lightness of his fine tunic’s long sleeves brushed his arms and made him think of Kyle. Stan drew in a deep, shaking breath, and let it out slowly. If he was going to continue, no matter his decision, he would need to tell his sister everything.

            “No,” Stan said. “You’re right. He’s not just any man. He is a gifted spellcaster, and a fine warrior, and my dearest friend. But he is my King, Shelley. I am in love with my King.” He heard Shelley draw in a gasp. “I love him. I _love_ him. And he loves me. But he is betrothed to your Princess, and I am certain the engagement is unjust but I have no proof. I am here on a quest, to be sure, but I am also here because I was banished.”

            “Stanley—”

            “I was banished because the Princess saw me as a threat, and because I saw through her and her paladin. I’m sorry to speak rudely of your Princess, but she has changed since last Kyle and I—since last my King and I knew her. I cannot go home with nothing, Shelley. I can’t return in shame. I need to save my kingdom, and if this is the only way that I can do it—”

            Suddenly, Shelley was kneeling in front of him, and she firmly grasped his hands. Stan opened his now misty eyes, and his sister looked up at him with determination. “If what you say is true,” Shelley said, “about the Princess… well, I don’t know, Stanley, but if her actions have moved you to tears, then I’m sure something isn’t right.” Shelley smiled. “And you have chosen _very_ well in your love, indeed, if the portraits of the Elven King are accurate. He is very handsome.”

            Stan found himself laughing a little. “He truly is,” Stan agreed.

            “Then, please, Stanley,” Shelley said, “let me make up for our lost time, and give you the gift of family, here and today. If becoming a nobleman would bring you to your love and therefore your happiness, it is the least that I can do.”

            “Why are you being so kind to me?” Stan had to know.

            “Because,” Shelley said, squeezing his hands, “I have mourned you for twelve long years. Even as you began to fade from my memory, you were always there… my little brother, who dreamed of doing so many great things. We lost you, and I am so sorry that we never found you. But I am so proud of the man you have become. I could not be there for you as we were growing up, but I can be a sister to you now, if you will let me.”

            Stan let a few tears fall, and felt himself smile. This was his chance. And truly, it seemed to be his only chance. One thing at a time—he would challenge the false Princess and ask for Kyle’s hand, and then, somehow, they could continue the investigation together into the truth behind the dragon. Kyle himself had seen to the added clause that someone of noble standing posing a challenge would delay the wedding. Stan never thought that he could be that very person in question.

            And he still wondered if indeed he could be. Becoming his mother’s son again and becoming an heir to her lands would mean leaving behind his life as a knight. But what else, Stan wondered, could he do?

            He brushed away his tears and tried to focus his mind on the here and now. He had found his sister; he had found a familial kindness he had never known. He had found a way to save Kyle, a way that he and Kyle could be together. That was, most certainly, not a small feat.

            In some way, his quest would be over.

            Stan let out his breath, and said to Shelley, “Thank you, sister. I’m ready.”

– – –

            As Shelley worked on the parchment at her desk, Stan perused the myriad shelves lining the walls of the large and beautiful room. The taller shelves of the library were accessible by a ladder that rolled on a track at the top, much like some of the shelves in the grand library of Kyle’s palace. Stan held onto the hope that he could have cause to return to Larnion soon, and climbed a few rungs of one of the ladders to explore a shelf of books with Elven written on the spines.

            Stan drew one book out from the shelf—it was bound in tree fibers from the elven forest, and written in gold ink. Stan smiled, recalling a book of fairy tales that he and Kyle had so loved when they were children, for the stories and for the beautiful illuminated letters on the pages.

            The book Stan held now was a comprehensive history of the elves from both Larnion and the north; it was written in Elven, but was clearly meant more for human readers, almost as a primer in magical history for those who may not have been taught the intricacies in their schooling. A thought hit Stan suddenly as he skimmed the book, and he lifted his head. “Shelley?” he asked.

            “Yes?” she said, not looking up from her work.

            Stan glanced down at the book, then set it back on the shelf.

            “You mentioned something yesterday,” Stan recalled, “about studying treatises, and law. Do you have any current records in the library? Anything from recent years? Particularly in the south’s relation to the west?”

            Shelley turned round in her chair and blinked slowly at him. “That’s highly specific of you, Stanley,” she said.

            “Do you?” Stan pressed, descending the ladder.

            “Well…”

            Shelley set down her quill and crossed to her large center table, where she began moving about scrolls and pamphlets and books and inkwells until she unearthed a rather large volume of parchment. “This isn’t a copy,” Shelley warned, “but if you’d like to take a look…”

            Stan’s heart raced. He very much would like to take a look at whatever was in that volume of text. He moved swiftly to stand at his sister’s side, and for a moment he had a clear glimpse of what his life would have been, had he not fallen from the carriage. A lifetime of studying books and maps, of drinking tea and discussing magic with his sister. It wasn’t all heavy curtains and being assisted with dressing. It might have been a nice life for someone, once. But it was not for Stan.

            Shelley turned the large pages slowly, almost reverently, careful not to swipe her thumb across any of the ink. “Here?” she offered. “From five years ago. Cattle trade.”

            “No, more recent than that,” Stan said. “Two years ago, if the book goes that far.”

            “I’ve borrowed this,” Shelley warned. She must have seen the way Stan was eyeing the pages, the way his fingers were curling in, ready to rip out a page of an original book of ledgers if it indeed contained the information he so desperately needed.

            “Two years ago,” Stan asked again. His heart was pounding. Perhaps there was another way that he could complete his quest after all.

            Shelley let out a huff of breath, already a sibling annoyed at her sibling, and turned a few more pages. “A… wait, is this a ransom?” Shelley wondered aloud, reaching one of the later written upon pages.

            “A what?” Stan asked, leaning over the book.

            _“Original,”_ Shelley warned again, shoving him back. Stan persisted, and loomed over her shoulder. Before Shelley even started reading, Stan had seen nearly all on the page that he needed to see. “It’s… the Princess Karen,” Shelley said, her eyes scanning the document. “Second in line to the southern throne. Missing and ransomed.” Shelley lifted her head. “Stanley, this was not news. We have all lived with the assumption that the young Princess was still inside the palace, but had taken ill. I—”

            “What else?” Stan urged. “What comes after this?”

            Shelley turned the page, her hand shaking now. “An agreement,” she read. “Oh, I _hate_ warlock penmanship. It’s so dreadful.”

            “Warlock penmanship?” Stan repeated strongly, his resolve rebuilding in him.

            “Yes, look!” Shelley said, splaying her hands out on either side of the page. The letters were spiny and thick, until the bottom of the document, where the penmanship was looping and precise. Princess Kenny’s signature, agreeing to, according to the spiny script, acquire elven land for the humans, thus bridging the gap between the western and southern kingdoms, allowing dark magic to cross through territories where currently Kyle’s kingdom served as a powerful stronghold to force it back. In exchange, no doubt, for her sister’s safe return. A hasty and desperate bargain, but one that the real Princess would undoubtedly have made, thinking she could find a loophole.

            Beneath Princess Kenny’s signature was a caveat: she would perform her duty without plotting against the warlocks, and the penmanship truly did become illegible after that, clearly turning things in the warlocks’ favor, and more than likely mentioning something about being replaced by a changeling should the Princess dissent.

            “I’m taking these,” Stan said.

            “No, no, no!” Shelley tried. But Stan had already ripped the two documents out of the ledger book. “I—you—you are _such_ —” Shelley sputtered. She then turned to hit him, but Stan feinted and rolled the two pages up into a single scroll, scanning the table as he did for something to tie it with. “Original!” Shelley screamed at him.

            “I know. That will be even better for my case,” Stan said. He found a length of twine that had been cast aside, grabbed it, and began wrapping the makeshift scroll with it about the middle.

            “What _case,_ Stanley?”

            “Where did you get that book?” Stan asked, tying off the twine.

            “What?”

            “Shelley, where did you get that book?” Stan repeated, stronger.

            “The… the southern court library,” Shelley said. “I was looking into my father’s—this father’s—history of land ownership to see what right the court had to seize part of it, and…”

            “The library gave you this entire ledger book?” Stan asked. “No questions? Who gave it to you? Did they say anything at all? Anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary?”

            “Well…” Shelley stared down at the ruined book, then gave up and pressed her lips together in thought. “The cleric who runs the library did say something peculiar. Something about a… a river. No. A brook? A creek?”

            “Hah!” Stan exclaimed, not even meaning to make a sound. He covered his mouth with one hand, then let himself laugh. “It was given to you by way of the Creek?”

            And he had a feeling that he knew precisely the cleric in question. It was no longer a wonder that Token had said Stan reminded him of someone, if Shelley was a patron of his library.

            “That’s the phrase, yes,” Shelley said. “Stanley, what on earth—” Stan walked back over to his sister and embraced her. “Don’t touch me, Stanley, you destroyed a beautifully bound book.”

            “I know.” Stan stood back, keeping his hands on his sister’s shoulders. He bent at the knees to be at her eye level, and was grinning broadly. “I may have destroyed a book, but you, my sister, have just saved the world.”

            Shelley blushed at the idea of it, but then her expression saddened. “You’re leaving,” she surmised.

            “I have to,” Stan said.

            “But you’ve only just come home!” Shelley protested. “Please, at least stay until our mother returns. You can still—”

            “I’m sure she’s lovely,” said Stan. “But I… this… this is all wonderful, Shelley, but this is not my home. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

            “Where to?”

            “I need to protect my kingdom.” Stan drew in a deep breath, and stood straight back with pride. “I remain every bit your brother,” he said to Shelley, “but I am not our mother’s son. I could never be a baron. I am a knight, who loves his King more dearly than anything in the world, and I swore an oath when I was nine years old to dedicate my life to the cause of my realm. I need to go home.”

            Shelley looked her brother in the eyes, and embraced him one last time. “Go,” she encouraged him. “Do visit, when you can.”

            “I will,” Stan promised, knowing that, barring the end of the world, he would. He stood back and tried to fit the parchment into his belt, then looked down, remembering he wasn’t wearing it. “Ah,” he said. Gesturing to his new clothes, he said, “I’ll, er…”

            “Keep them,” Shelley urged. “Take them with you. A gift from your other life, little ghost.”

            Stan reached forward, squeezed his sister’s shoulder, said, “Thank you,” and then was off, up the stairs and into the fine room with the too heavy curtains.

            Stan changed his clothes quickly, bundling up his gifts and fondly returning to his knight’s uniform. He secured his bracers and his belt in place, slid his daggers into his familiar boots, tied the scroll to his belt and his cloak around his shoulders, and left the manor for the stables, where Clyde stood smoking his pipe.

            “We’re leaving,” Stan said abruptly.

            Clyde glanced up, snuffed out his pipe, and asked, “Now, Sir?”

            “Yes. How fast can you ride?”

            Clyde was already preparing the horses as he answered, “Well enough, my lord, but not as fast as you.”

            “That’s fine,” Stan said. He checked the parchment in his belt, fixed his parcel of clothing to his horse’s saddle, and mounted as soon as Clyde handed him the reins. “I’m going back to the palace. Go at the very least to the border and inform the Creek.”

            “You’re returning?” Clyde asked. “Now? What’s your plan, what will you do?”

            Stan looked back at him and said with resolve, “I’m going to slay a dragon.” And with that, he was off.

– – –


	11. XI. The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which allies are summoned, the great danger is fought, and Stan and Kyle are reunited at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next intentionally do not have memory sequences. For the time being, we'll remain in the present.

            Stan rode back to the routes northeast as fast as his horse could carry him. Tears threatened in his eyes, but he forced them away. Not now, not yet. Not until he set everything right. Assuming, of course, that he did still have time to set things right.

            As he rode, taking what he knew to be the shortest paths back to the palace, Stan scanned the forest for any signs of the magic threads’ unraveling. His Sight was less strong in the daytime, but he could clearly see a few warps and frays. He rested very briefly, and only when he needed to, as day turned to evening and evening back into day, but as soon as he was able, Stan spurred his horse on, not wanting to leave Kyle with the corrupt dragon a second longer.

            In the thick of the forest, seemingly from nowhere, footsteps sounded to Stan’s side. He gasped and looked down, ready to draw his sword for a fight, but was relieved to see not an enemy but Feldspar, running alongside Stan’s horse.

            “Found what you needed?” Feldspar asked.

            “I did,” Stan said. “You’re not really here, are you?”

            Feldspar laughed. “No man can run as fast as you can ride, Sir,” he said, confirming that particular form of his to be one of Feldspar’s shadowy illusions.

            “Where are you, then?” Stan had to know.

            “We’re on our way,” said Feldspar. “Word came to the tavern and then to the forests. You have the Creek’s steel and arrows, and our allies.”

            Stan took in a slight gasp. “The Valkyrie…?” he dared to ask.

            “You’ll see,” said Feldspar, before he disappeared.

            Regardless of whom, Stan had reinforcements. He had his guard, who would hopefully still follow his command despite his recent absence and the false Princess’s orders, and at least a few others who would aid the Drow Elves in this time of need. Even knowing that the Creek, rogues trained in multiple disciplines, and Clyde, impervious to dark magic, were on his side, Stan was hopeful.

            Stan’s heart was pounding as Kyle’s palace came into view. There it glittered in the sunlight as always, emanating its magic and warmth despite the terrors that still dwelt inside. But still, Stan was hopeful.

            He was home.

            He arrived half wondering what it could have been like to catch the entire court in the middle of the ceremony, to dramatically enter and reveal to all the fraudulent Princess and her paladin’s deals with the warlocks to the west. But time had at least been kind to him, and he had arrived with days to spare. He dismounted and left his horse with a squire in the courtyard, saluted with haste to the guards at the gate, and pulled open the palace doors with resolve.

            One of the door guards followed him in, saying in a rushed but grateful tone, “Sir Stanley! You’re home, you’re alive? The Princess told us—”

            “The Princess is a fraud,” said Stan. “Take me to the King.”

            “Straight away, my liege.”

            The door guard took the lead, but barely, only enough to direct Stan the right way. Stan fixed his eyes forward, and with every step felt as if a fire were burning inside him—like a beacon, calling him back to Kyle.

            Stan’s soldier stopped in front of the large, fine doors of the palace’s grand council chamber, saluted, and stood at attention. “Do not stay here,” Stan ordered. “Gather the guard. As many as you can. Do you trust me?”

            “You’ve come back from parts unknown, Sir,” said the soldier. “You will always have the guard’s trust, and our arms.”

            “Good. Prepare to guard this palace with your lives. Do not listen to the council or to the Princess. Take orders only from me and from the King. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, my liege.”

            Stan dismissed the soldier, then turned and pried open the council chamber’s doors with both hands.

            “Proof!” he exclaimed as he entered, holding up the parchment from his sister.

            All eyes were on him. Kyle glanced up from his seat at the head of the large table at the center of the room, and his emerald eyes glistened. Stan could even see his jaw slightly drop; saw him silently mouth Stan’s name.

            Stan nodded, and strode toward the table, where he slapped down the rolled-up documents. “I have proof,” he declared again.

            “How dare you burst in here like this?” asked one of the Princess’s councilmen. “This is not how a knight of our Queen’s court will be expected to behave.”

            “Good,” Stan spat. “Because I’m not going to serve your Princess. And neither should you. She’s been conning you all. And I have _proof.”_

            He untied and rolled out the pages, and watched as horror crept across the faces of the men and women around the table when they saw the unmistakable spiny penmanship of the warlocks.

            “Read these and know everything,” Stan announced. “This arrangement is no treaty of diplomacy, but a calculated attack that reeks of dark magic from the West. This engagement is fraudulent and insulting, and I’ve come to put a stop to it.”

            And then he was only looking at Kyle.

            Kyle, who sat at the head of the table, his green eyes sparkling with tears, his face nearly as pale as his new white robe. Kyle, who, despite his emotional state, was still the most beautiful person Stan had ever laid eyes on.

            And Stan smiled, and said, “I’m here.”

            Kyle’s face flushed with joy, and he held his hands over his heart. Stan had never been more in love.

            But there was no time for happy reunions. The Princess, seated beside the King, rose to her feet and ripped off her fresh white scarf, which matched her elaborate, tiered dress. “You wretch!” she snapped at Stan. “I told you never to show your face in this kingdom again!”

            Stan ignored her, drew his sword, and pointed it in her direction. “That is not the Princess Kenny,” he declared. The councilmembers all turned and stared at the false Princess in mixed looks of shock, terror, and obedience. Stan memorized the faces of those who chose to still obey. “She is a changeling, left in the Princess’s place by the ruler of the West. She will not bring prosperity, but ruin. This is her entire pact with the warlocks. While you waste your time with antiquated laws, your true Princess lies captured, far from here.”

            “How did you get your hands on that?” the false Princess snapped.

            “Friends in high places,” Stan returned. “Step away from my King.”

            The false Princess seethed, and the skin around her eyes appeared to turn bone white. “Kill him,” she ordered to the room.

            A few of her loyal attendants and soldiers drew blades and bows, and when an arrow was fired, Stan sliced it in half with an easy swing of his sword before the tip could come near him. He turned toward Kyle and announced, “Fire, my lord, she’s weak against fire! She’s a frost dragon, you have the upper hand!”

            “What?!” Kyle cried out. He moved quickly to the side, away from the false Princess, and let fire engulf his hands. _“Dragon?!”_

            One of the Princess’s councilmen took that moment to make a reach for the documents Stan had laid on the table. Stan noticed, and pulled the dagger from his left boot and tossed it into the man’s hand. Kyle turned, surveying the action, then looked back at the dragon, whose glamour held even now that Kyle had knowledge of her true nature. She had been invited into the kingdom after all—that was enough to hold a spell.

            The false Princess drew out a small blade from her sleeve and struck out at Kyle, who feinted and leapt atop the table. Fire still licking about his hands, Kyle removed his white robe and let it catch the flames. He tossed it at the false Princess, who let out a scream and dove out of the way, and Kyle turned to make a run for the documents, grabbing them and rolling them up, and holding them above his head before the Princess’s councilman could make another reach for them with his good hand.

            “This ends today!” Kyle announced to all. “All of this madness… it ends _today!”_

            He looked back at Stan and smiled; Stan smiled in return, in awe and in love. Without his robe, Kyle was, and Stan expected no less, dressed for a fight. Kyle had dismissed his usual finery and was wearing a white tunic, black riding trousers, and not a silk doublet but a beautifully crafted leather jerkin, dyed his customary crimson, which could easily withstand attacks. Kyle had been ready, and for that, Stan was beyond grateful and proud.

            But suddenly the room shook with thunder. Kyle gasped and leapt down from the table, rushing to Stan’s side. Stan took hold of Kyle’s arm and walked them both backwards a few paces as the councils scattered, and out from the back of the room stepped Leopold, hammer in hand sparking with latent lightning.

            Kyle hauled Stan in. “We can’t keep these documents safe and fight them off at the same time,” he said in a tone just above a whisper as he tied the parchment back up into a scroll. “What do we do?”

            “Whichever of us is able first,” Stan said, “we must get them to someone in my guard. We still have their loyalty, and we should have reinforcements on the way.”

            Kyle brightened, and his ears perked up. “Reinforcements?” he asked.

            Stan grinned. “By way of the Creek,” he said.

            Overcome, Kyle blinked out a couple tears of relief, and squeezed Stan’s shoulder. Both felt instantly stronger and more capable, knowing the other was there.

            And then it was back to the fray.

            “You were _banished,”_ Leopold snarled, his eyes on Stan.

            “You were merciful,” Stan countered, holding out his sword and keeping Kyle close. “What happened? Are your eyes clouded by the dragon’s glamour? By the warlocks’ treachery?”

            “I told you to keep your head down!” Leopold roared, and he held out his hammer. The weight of it sparked and lightning shot forward.

            Stan and Kyle dodged the blast, and as soon as the static in the air had dissipated, Kyle tucked the rolled up parchment into his belt, drew a deep breath, and gathered flame into his right hand. With a shout, Kyle hurled the fire in a concentrated blast at the paladin.

            Leopold managed to dodge the worst of it, but in doing so, he left the false Princess exposed. Unprepared, she took the rest of the blast in the chest and let out an earsplitting scream, which dissolved into a trembling roar.

            A few members of both councils let out cries of alarm, and Stan noticed the handful of Princess Kenny’s attendants who looked to remain loyal to the dragon stayed back while others scattered. They were either magicked by the glamour, or loyal to the warlocks; either way, they were not allies of Larnion.

            The false Princess righted her position, and smoke rose from her body as she took a few staggered steps forward. Part of her dress had burned away, and the skin beneath was smoldering… and gleaming like scales. She let out another cry, and the smoke engulfed her, rising up in a shaft until it became an icy haze. Her form twisted and grew as the cold mist filled the room, and then the mist was blown away by two great white wings.

            The mist was gone, and there stood, filling the room, an enormous frost dragon with white and iridescent scales, leathery wings, and burn marks on her chest and front left leg, where before Stan had seen the candle-wax singe the false Princess’s arm.

            The dragon let out a long roar and lunged.

            “Run,” Stan said to Kyle, and together they turned and bolted from the council chamber.

            Kyle grabbed Stan’s arm and pulled him toward the front doors when Stan seemed to be slowing his pace to fight. “I won’t let her bring down my palace,” Kyle said. “No more destruction. We finish this outside. And we fight together.”

            “Of course,” Stan obliged.

            Stan shouted a command to his guards to open the doors and prepare themselves, and he and Kyle rushed outside to the courtyard before the doors could even open completely. Once outside, Kyle drew his own sword, and the two watched the front doors for movement.

            A bolt of lightning shot out first, followed by the dragon, who barreled forward before taking a leap into the air.

            “Someone get my bow!” Kyle called out to the guard.

            One knight saluted and ran for the armory, and Kyle surveyed the grounds. Stan’s army was at the ready with bows, swords, and lances, and the door guards had closed and locked up the entrance to the palace again. Both councils were gathered outside… some were stunned, few looked prepared to fight. Ten of the Princess’s attendants drew weapons and were ready to attack the soldiers defending Kyle’s palace.

            The frost dragon perched on the palace spires and proclaimed herself with another roar, as the ten attendants flanked Leopold, whose eyes were still on the King and his knight. “Hand over the treaty,” Leopold demanded of Kyle.

            “Never,” Kyle retorted, holding out his sword. “Where are the Princesses? Are you a dragon, too? What was your plan?”

            “You Drow Elves are stubborn, you know that?” Leopold said, taking slow strides forward. “Always asking too many questions. You’re people of letters and laws,” Leopold said. “We humans _fight,_ your highness. That’s how you get what you want.”

            “You have a pretty narrow view of how the world works,” Kyle said. “Who fed you all of that, the warlocks? I just want the truth. That’s the only way to peace.”

            Leopold scoffed. “Peace,” he mocked. “Please. That’s unattainable.”

            “Then let me be stubborn and at least try,” Kyle said.

            Leopold began to run forward, hammer raised, and both Stan and Kyle raised their swords to counter, but an arrow hit Leopold’s shoulder, and the paladin went sprawling back.

            A bird call sounded from the trees past the courtyard, and Stan and Kyle looked back simultaneously to see Thresher standing on a low, thick branch of one of the trees, longbow trained toward the courtyard with another arrow at the ready.

            “My lord,” one of Kyle’s councilmen called out, “what is going on? Who is that rogue? What is—”

            “Enough!” Kyle interrupted, stepping forward. He pointed his sword toward the councilman and said, “You have done enough. However unwittingly, it was you, all of you, who invited this damage here. It was you who refused to listen to reason. To _me._ If you dismiss your own King’s concerns, then what are you doing but perpetuating the very rumors about us that the warlocks believe? That they can use to their advantage?”

            Kyle took a deep breath. “But, as you can see, we find ourselves in battle, and I know that your precious laws now give me full command,” he said. “If you will not stand with me now, you will spend as much time as I deem necessary in prison. Do you understand? I will not let you get in my way of protecting my kingdom any longer.”

            The councilman looked ready to protest, but could not. He stood down, and said, “Yes, sire.”

            “Guards,” Kyle said, “restrain those who will not fight. Do not let them get away.”

            The dragon let out another roar, and Leopold staggered back to his feet, pulling Thresher’s arrow from his shoulder. Thresher let fly another arrow, and Leopold knocked it out of the way with his hammer.

            The knight Kyle had sent to the armory returned with his longbow. Kyle sheathed his sword, donned the quiver of arrows, and handed the documents to the knight in exchange for his weapon. “Keep this safe,” Kyle instructed. The knight nodded, and fell back.

            Kyle stepped forward and raised up his bow. “Those who will fight for Larnion, stand with me now!” he called out. “This dragon was sent to our lands by our enemies in the west. Safeguard our forest however you can, and fight!”

            A rallying cry went up among the guard, and a horn sounded from the forest.

            Kyle and Stan turned, and Stan felt himself grin. Riding forward on a grey warhorse was Wendy, clad in shining gold armor, her hair pulled back and a gleaming broadsword drawn. Behind her rode a dozen Valkyrie, and standing on either side of her were Feldspar, with daggers at the ready, and Clyde, again clad in his pirate’s coat, clenching and unclenching his unbandaged hands.

            “What…” Kyle began.

            “Reinforcements,” Stan said, still grinning.

            The dragon let out another roar, and the Princess’s ten attendants charged. From every side of the palace, soldiers who had accompanied the false Princess on her journey into Larnion stormed forward, surrounding the courtyard. Kyle pulled an arrow from his quiver, enchanted the tip with a burst of flame, and shot it skyward at the dragon. It hit her wing, and the dragon let out a cry. She shook the arrow free and took to the air.

            “Archers!” Stan called out. “Aim for the dragon! The rest, do whatever you can to unarm the paladin, and bring down the Princess’s soldiers!”

            “Push them toward the gates!” Kyle added.

            Several of Stan’s knights armed with longbows fell into formation and trained their arrows on the dragon. Even if her skin could not be pierced by steel, every attack would serve to distract her, and keep her as cornered as possible while the rest of the threats were dealt with.

            Kyle fell in with the other archers, enchanting each of his own arrows with flame and calling commands to the soldiers for the opportune moments to attack. Stan gave orders to still more of his soldiers to do as Kyle had asked and push the Princess’s attendants and army toward the gates, to keep the palace safe, and in following them back, Stan took what time he could to address the Valkyrie.

            “Wendy,” he said. “I’m again in your debt.”

            “Commander, you can call me,” Wendy said. “And I suppose I am to call you Sir.”

            “Yes, indeed,” Stan said. “You have Larnion’s thanks for your assistance, Commander Wendy.”

            “You have our steel,” Wendy promised. “What are your orders, Sir?”

            “Please defend this palace and our people against the Princess’s soldiers and drive them toward the gate,” Stan asked, “but try not to strike any killing blows. We must keep everyone possible alive for questioning later. Should the dragon descend, know that steel hardly leaves a scratch on her.”

            “And the Chaos Paladin?” Wendy asked.

            Stan’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Leave the paladin to us.”

            Wendy nodded, and then, to the Valkyrie, she called, “Sisters, move out! Strike not to kill. Our alliance this day is with Larnion, for the peace of the realms.”

            “For the peace of the realms!” her sisters-in-arms called back to her.

            After the Valkyrie rode forward, Thresher dropped down from the tree and Stan stood with Clyde and both halves of the Creek to formulate a more direct plan.

            “Welcome back, Sir,” Thresher said to Stan. “Any special orders?”

            “Thank you,” Stan said. “I need the three of you to help me corner the paladin and keep him and the reach of that dreadful hammer of his as far away from the King and the palace as possible. I’ll want to wear the dragon down somewhat with fatigue, but we _must_ disarm and restrain the paladin first.”

            “Agreed,” Feldspar said, pulling up his bandit’s mask. “You’ll want the final blow?”

            “I’m not going to kill him,” Stan said. “I do have every intention, however, of slaying the dragon.”

            “Then we’ll deal with the paladin swiftly,” Feldspar decided.

            “That would be best.” Stan turned to Clyde and asked, “You’re here to fight?”

            “I’m not really sure what I’m doing here, Sir,” Clyde admitted. “This is the most I’ve seen of a battlefield in years, but I owe you and your King whatever aid I can provide.”

            Stan nodded, then noticed, “Your hands…”

            “Right,” Clyde said, drawing them up to display his tattooed palms. “I figured, a dragon… and you mentioned the warlocks of the west not long ago, and…”

            “If you can nullify dark magic,” Stan said, “please do your best. The Princess’s council seems to be under effects of some sort of glamour. If you can get close to them… I don’t know. But be particularly cautious of the paladin, Leopold. Should you find yourself within arms’ reach, I give you permission to strike as you must. But do not kill him.”

            Clyde nodded stiffly. “Understood, Sir,” he said.

            Stan readied his sword and signaled to the Creek to move out; the two were gone in the blink of an eye. Clyde walked forward into the fray unarmed but determined, and Stan looked up to the peaks of the palace, where the dragon was perched, and felt his heart race.

            There had never been any other outcome to his quest. Stan had been presented with a second option, but it was meant to come to this. Somehow, in some way, he would see that dragon destroyed, and peace return to Larnion.

            An arrow flew toward him and Stan ducked out of the way, then righted himself to see one of his own guardsmen taking a strike at the Princess’s soldier who had fired the arrow. Several other soldiers from the south moved toward Stan, and he straightened, readying his sword, and then strode forward.

            The first soldier to reach him struck out with a sword, and Stan blocked it with his own, forcing the other man back. Stan tried to catch the man’s eyes, and he did indeed blink, but like Leopold, his expression was clouded and stern. Glamoured, indeed, to follow the dragon that had taken the Princess’s place.

            Stan stuck out his left foot to catch the soldier’s ankle and trip him to one side, disarming him in the process and taking up the soldier’s sword in his left hand. When another struck at Stan from behind with a lance, Stan jabbed backwards with the hilt of his previous opponent’s sword to hit the other soldier in the chest. He struck out with the blade just enough to cut the assailant’s side and disarm her, then threw down the second sword and took his own in both hands to strike at two other men who had advanced.

            In the middle of the fray, he caught sight of Leopold. The paladin was not making a move of his own, yet, but he was watching, and with each soldier Stan cut down, the paladin looked less impressed. Another line of soldiers advanced toward Stan, but he pushed forward through them, striking the others down, keeping his sights on Leopold.

            Finally, the paladin had been provoked enough. He spun out his hammer to one side, and took heavy strides toward Stan. “Leopold, stop!” Stan tried. The paladin only narrowed his cold eyes and picked up his pace.

            Leopold struck with his hammer from above, and Stan was quick to counter it. The force of steel upon steel shot sparks through the air above their heads, and Leopold managed to shove Stan back. More of the Princess’s soldiers started to advance, but Leopold called out, “Leave this one, he’s mine!”

            Stan once again readied his sword. “I am not your enemy, Leopold,” he said.

            Leopold only glowered and responded, “You are nothing.”

            Stan refused to be driven by anger, but let himself retaliate by striking first. Leopold countered, but Stan rallied and struck again. Leopold was mistaken, not to mention that his rational thought seemed to be gone.

            Stan was not nothing. He would not let such words cut him any longer. Far from nothing, he was a soldier, a brother, a friend and ally to knights and rogues alike. He was Larnion’s champion. Kyle’s champion. And he would never leave his King’s side again.

            Leopold blocked each strike from Stan’s sword but one, which grazed the paladin’s left arm and drew a considerable amount of blood. Leopold’s blue tunic sleeve stained a dark red, and the blood loss only seemed to fuel him. Taking the Hammer of Storms into both hands, he struck with terrifying force at Stan again, and again.

            Stan deflected Leopold’s attacks, but knew it was only a matter of time until lightning would strike. “Aren’t you a paladin?” Stan tried to reason with him. “Don’t you remember why you took up such a cause? Why you denounced your life as a cleric and chose to serve your Princess?”

            “And what of you, knight?” Leopold shouted back. He struck again, and Stan pushed against the hammer with the flat of his blade, forcing back the paladin with both hands on his weapon. “Know your place!”

            “I do,” Stan said. “Which is precisely why I’ve come back.”

            Leopold let out a yell but seemed to falter, starting to step back to recalculate his next move.

            Given the moment’s opportunity, Stan quickly pulled out the remaining dagger he had tucked into one of his boots and thrust it upward, cutting into the heel of Leopold’s palm. The paladin let out a slight cry of discomfort and dropped his hammer. It landed behind Stan, but before Stan could recover it, Leopold struck him across the face and made a dive for the weapon. Stan’s own shock from the blow caused him to lose his grip on the dagger, but not his sword, and before he could completely recover his stance, Leopold had taken up his hammer again. Kneeling, Leopold struck the backs of Stan’s legs, tripping him instantly.

            Stan fell forward, but was quick to roll onto his back and recover his grip on his sword’s hilt. Leopold was still in a better position to strike, and jabbed one knee down on Stan’s ribs, holding up his hammer to strike.

            “Stop!” Stan bargained again. “You know that dragon is not your Princess! And I am not your enemy. Let us speak with reason again, Leopold. Are we not allies?”

            Leopold had no answer, and brought his hammer down hard. Stan pushed him off and managed to roll out of the way of the strike. Leopold’s aura crackled with the current of the air around him, and he whirled on Stan, grabbing up his hammer yet again.

            Only to be stopped once more by one of Thresher’s arrows.

            The long arrow stuck into Leopold’s side, and he let out an aggravated yell as he pulled it out, blood pooling at the wound. Stan gasped, but took the moment to return to his feet. If Leopold was not even reacting to being injured, perhaps whatever enchantment lay over him was simply too strong.

            Stan looked over at Thresher, who nodded, then fit another arrow to his bow and shot Leopold’s knee. The paladin ripped out that arrow as well, and staggered to his feet. “Out of my way, rogue,” he warned.

            “You’re only lucky my arrows didn’t find you the night your hammer found Feldspar,” Thresher lashed back, firing another arrow, this time aiming for the side of Leopold’s neck.

            Leopold managed to dodge, and threw his hammer forward, hitting the bow out of Thresher’s hand. He ran forward, recovered the hammer, and knocked the rogue down. Stan took up his sword and moved a few paces forward, ready to strike from behind, but stalled when the air changed, and static began to gather around Leopold’s hammer.

            With Thresher disarmed and on the ground, Leopold took two steps back and aimed to strike down the rogue completely, holding his Hammer of Storms high over his head. Lightning licked the weight of the weapon, but the sparks never flew.

            Before the hammer could come down, Feldspar dashed between the two men and drew forth a concealed dagger from his belt. He yanked down his bandit’s mask to reveal the scar Leopold had left on him, narrowed his eyes, and warned, “Don’t you touch him,” before hurling the dagger at the paladin.

            Feldspar had never missed a target, and his dagger keenly found its mark, burying deep into Leopold’s left eye.

            The paladin promptly dropped his weapon and doubled over as he let out a howl of pain, hands flying to cover his face as blood cried down from the wound. Feldspar threw himself over his partner as the hammer fell to the ground, its charge of lightning blasting upwards toward the sky in a pillar. Stan held back the paladin, who already was trying to stumble blindly back to his hammer.

            Steel clashed around them as the other soldiers continued to fight, but out from the fray rushed Clyde. Stan caught a glimpse of the ranger briefly, and after a quick survey of the scene for himself, Clyde drew a deep breath and rushed for Leopold’s hammer.

            “What are you doing?” Stan shouted at the ranger.

            “I’m not sure, Sir, but I hope this works,” was all Clyde said.

            As the hammer still shot sparks skyward, Clyde dropped to his knees and grabbed the weapon in both hands. Instantly, the lightning turned to black, and remained so for a flickering few seconds before dying out altogether. Steam hissed up from the metal where it touched Clyde’s marked palms, and Clyde heaved out a sigh of relief.

            Stan stared at the ranger dumbfounded for a moment, but then felt the paladin lurch forward. Stan strengthened his grip on Leopold’s shoulder, and the paladin planted his feet, curling forward and taking slow, uneven breaths. As Feldspar and Thresher helped one another up to stand guard, Stan cautiously moved to face Leopold, who kept his left hand over his damaged eye and slowly lowered his right hand, revealing that it was absolutely trembling.

            Then, suddenly, Leopold gasped and picked his head up, only to wince, and his one good eye was wide and clear, his face pale and washed of the haunting, ice-cold expression he had been wearing for weeks. Catching sight of him, Leopold asked in a broken voice, “Sir Stanley?”

            “Leopold?” Stan returned, searching his expression for any lingering signs of corruption. He could see none. The aura around the paladin had utterly changed.

            “Sir Stanley!” Leopold exclaimed in a panic, reaching forward and grasping Stan’s arm with his unsteady right hand. He winced and swayed on his feet from the blood loss, but continued speaking, his voice frantic. “Where is my Princess? Where is… I have to find—I… I have to _warn—“_

            The dragon let out a roar, and both men turned to look back at where the beast was now facing two lines of Valkyrie and Stan’s own soldiers.

            “No!” Leopold cried out. “No, no, no, no…” He began to walk unsteadily forward, but Stan held him back firmly.

            “You’re not going anywhere but prison,” Stan said.

            The paladin turned his head to look at Stan, his fingers gingerly pressing around the irreparable damage done to his own left eye, and slowly seemed to come to his senses with the reality of recent events. Tears sprang to Leopold’s right eye, and he simply nodded, accepting his fate.

            “Do you remember everything you did?” Stan had to know.

            “Sir, I—”

            “Never mind,” Stan cut him off when the dragon let out another long roar. “We haven’t time for that now. You’ll state your case later. Only answer me this: do you know where Princess Kenny is?”

            “No,” Leopold said with remorse. “They’ve taken her… they must have taken her. Sir, please…”

            “Save your breath,” Stan said. “We will find her. Feldspar,” he said to the rogues, “Thresher. Is all well?”

            “Indeed, Sir,” Feldspar confirmed, and Thresher, armed again, nodded.

            “Good,” said Stan. “Please get a medic for the paladin and see that he is locked up. My King and I shall question him later.”

            Leopold showed no resistance as the Creek took him by the arms and led him away, but he did strain to look back at the dragon before bowing his head and submitting completely to his captors. Stan watched for a moment before turning back to a very stunned Clyde, still kneeling over the now powerless Hammer of Storms.

            “So the hammer itself had been glamoured,” Stan reasoned. “Thank you, Clyde.”

            “I wasn’t altogether sure if that would work,” Clyde admitted, “but—”

            “No. You did well,” Stan said.

            Clyde accepted the praise with an uncertain nod and stood, keeping the hammer in both hands. “What should be done with this?” he asked Stan.

            “Keep it on your person,” Stan instructed. “We can’t risk it returning to power at the dragon’s whim, if such things are possible. I can’t rule anything of the sort out. Can I trust you to keep it safe and hidden?”

            Clyde stared down at the hammer, then tied it to one side of his belt and pulled his coat back around him and answered, “Yes, Sir.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said again. “Please continue to do what you can against the Princess’s soldiers. I need to find my King.”

            Clyde grinned. “I’ll bet he’s glad to have you back, Sir,” he said slyly.

            Stan flushed somewhat, then cleared his throat and said, “Stay alert, Clyde,” and walked back toward where Kyle was still leading the archers against the dragon.

            “Good luck to you, Sir!” Clyde called after him.

            Stan held up a hand to acknowledge that he had heard the ranger, and continued forward.

            Kyle let fly the last of his own arrows, ablaze with enchanted flame, skyward and directly into the dragon’s throat. It singed a few of her scales, but the arrow’s tip was too small to afflict any truly lasting damage. The attack was enough to provoke the dragon to leap down from the turrets of Kyle’s palace, however, and Kyle shouted out, _“Move!”_ to his soldiers and the Valkyrie on the field.

            One man was trapped under the dragon’s left foot when she landed, but the rest managed to scatter. The Valkyrie, at Wendy’s command, reformed their line first. Arrows flew and spears were thrown, but the dragon was little more than angered by the onslaught.

            Kyle tossed off his empty quiver and quickly accepted another from a squire. He fitted three arrows to his longbow, narrowed his gaze, lit the tips with a whisper, and let them fly, again aiming for the dragon’s head and neck. Two hit and left scorch marks against her glimmering scales, but one stuck in, where her skull met her spine, burying into the space between two scales and burning into her flesh.

            The dragon let out a roar and shook the arrow free, then righted herself and fixed her ice blue eyes on Kyle. The dragon opened her mouth, revealing rows of her diamond-sharp teeth, and let out a long breath of ice.

            Stan reached Kyle just in time to pull him down and out of the way of the blast, and as the other archers scattered to reform their lines from a new vantage point, Stan pulled Kyle toward the row of trees at the palace gate, where the courtyard met the forest. They both knelt down and took a moment to catch their breath, but were wary of the ongoing battle behind them.

            “Thank you, Stan,” Kyle said, gently setting a hand on Stan’s cheek to turn his face towards him.

            Stan looked right at Kyle, only at Kyle, and smiled gratefully. “I’m here,” he answered, and a wonderful spark lit in Kyle’s eyes. “When did you learn how to use your flame with your arrows?” Stan wondered.

            Kyle’s face tinted pink, and he answered, “I did as you asked. I’ve been keeping it burning in secret.”

            “You are remarkable,” Stan couldn’t stop himself from saying, his smile staying on.

            “I’ve done what I can,” Kyle said modestly. The dragon let out another long roar behind them. Kyle sighed. “But I’m afraid my arrows aren’t enough,” he said. “I’ve been able to singe her and cause some damage, but we need something more.”

            “What do you suggest?” Stan wondered.

            Kyle looked out at the field. If he tried to burn the dragon with a pure ball of flame, there was no telling how much damage it would do, or what else might catch fire if she fell. He could not risk the safety of his people and his palace with too bold an attack. The best way to defeat her, he reasoned, was with a direct strike. Kyle looked back at Stan, and the solution came to him.

            “I have an idea,” Kyle said, “but I hate to ask this of you…”

            “Anything,” Stan said. “We need to defeat her, and we must try anything and everything.”

            “All right.” Kyle took a deep breath. “Your sword,” he said. “It is one of the strongest weapons in the land, you and I both know this.”

            “But even it can’t pierce a dragon’s scales,” Stan said.

            “I know. But I believe it could, if I enchant it.”

            Stan’s eyes widened, and he looked out to the fray, and then back at Kyle. “With your flame?” he checked. “Would that work?”

            Kyle nodded. “I have every reason to believe it would,” Kyle said. “But Stan, I… I can only enchant weapons without names. Or weapons with names that I know. Such is the bond between weapon and wielder.”

            “Oh…” Stan realized. He looked down at where his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. “I understand.”

            Stan thought back to the night he had met Kyle in the forest, not far from where now they knelt, for the naming ceremony of his weapon. About the only name he knew he could have given to such a blade, about how well it had served its purpose thus far. And about how it would indeed fulfill the promise of its name now.

            “Here,” Stan offered, fully ready to hand his blade over to Kyle. “Please cast your enchantment. I’ll tell you its name. I need to defeat this dragon, and I cannot do it alone.”

            Kyle stared softly into Stan’s eyes for a moment, then looked down at Stan’s sword. And Kyle, too, thought about the night he had performed the ceremony for Stan. About how honored he had been to fulfill such a responsibility, about how Stan deliberated over his weapon until he knew that it was the right one, about how earnestly Stan undertook his every duty as a knight. Kyle shook his head. “No,” he said gently, “I’m sorry. Even as King, this is too grave a request. I can’t—”

            “You can,” Stan said. “It’s all right. This is what must be done. I know that a knight sharing the name of his sword with another is highly unusual, but I promise, I—”

            “But this is _your sword,_ Stan,” Kyle said, aware of the weight of his words. “The one blade with which you share a lifetime bond. A sword like this is practically a knight’s _soul._ I can’t ask this of you. I’m sorry. We’ll think of something else. Or I could enchant my own sword, or…”

            “It’s all right.” Carefully, he placed his free hand at the back of Kyle’s head, and drew him closer so that their foreheads touched. Kyle let out a wary breath. “It’s all right,” Stan repeated. “If anyone were to hear the name of my sword, my dearest friend, I would be honored if it were you. You who blessed it for me and gave it purpose to begin with. I named it for you.”

            Kyle’s green eyes widened. “What?” he breathed. “Stan, what…?”

            Stan smiled, and drew his hand back. He held his sword beween them, the blade flat in his palms. “Please,” Stan asked, “give me the strength to slay this dragon and protect our kingdom.”

            Still somewhat stunned, Kyle nodded. He gingerly placed his palms over the surface of the sword, and asked, “To which blade should I offer the gift of my fire?”

            Stan leaned in, and whispered into Kyle’s ear, _“The King’s Shield.”_

            Kyle gasped, and when Stan drew back, he saw tears in Kyle’s eyes. And then Kyle smiled, and nodded again, and murmured a small invocation when he turned his gaze back to the sword.

            The blade burst into flame. Stan quickly stood back and corrected his grip, moving both hands to the hilt, but the flame had not burned his hands. Cautiously, he brought up his left hand and held it over the active fire.

            “It will only burn those you strike,” Kyle said, “so long as the enchantment holds.”

            The dragon roared again, and Stan turned to survey the scene. The Valkyrie had the dragon surrounded; the dragon was wounded, which only served to make her angry. She breathed out a blast of ice—one of the Valkyrie was hit, while the others managed to assume new positions, but even their blades and arrows could not pierce those scales.

            Stan turned back to face Kyle, and gratefully set a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” Stan said.

            Kyle brushed a hand against Stan’s cheek, and wished him luck with the words, “Strike true.”

            Invigorated by the moment, Stan kissed Kyle’s forehead, both in further thanks and as a promise to succeed. When he drew back, Kyle was smiling proudly, and the light of the forest faintly glowed around him. And, oh, there was love in his eyes.

            Stan smiled, with pride and resolve, and then, determined, he turned and walked with strong strides back to the scene of the battle. He kept a firm grip of his sword’s hilt with his right hand, holding the blade, ablaze with Kyle’s enchantment, out to the side to make it all the more obvious that he intended to strike the final blow of the fight, and soon.

            When he was only a few paces away, Stan called out, “Dragon!”

            The dragon let out a roar and turned to face him, icy breath flaring from her nostrils. Stan continued walking forward.

            “I am your opponent!” Stan shouted at the dragon, signaling the others to fall back.

            Before she could retreat with her sisters, Commander Wendy passed by Stan and offered up her shield. “If you wish to strike close,” she said, “protect yourself.”

            “Thank you,” Stan said, knowing it was unwise to refuse such an offering from a Valkyrie. He hefted the large shield onto his left forearm, and held it out not a moment too soon as the dragon let loose a long stream of her icy breath in his direction.

            When the Valkyrie Commander was gone, Stan pushed forward against the dragon’s attack. Particles of ice shot through the air around him, but he persisted. Not even the ice dragon’s breath could douse the enchanted flame that still surrounded Stan’s blade.

            The dragon ceased her attack and let out another roar, and Stan took that moment to charge. As the dragon began to spread her wings, Stan lunged and drove his sword deep into her already damaged left leg. The flames from Kyle’s enchantment singed the dragon’s scales and indeed melted them away, allowing Stan’s blade to drive through his target. Stan gasped and let himself marvel at the fact for a moment, then drew out his sword and stepped back as the dragon let out a pained roar.

            She snaked her long neck around to gnash her teeth before him, so Stan rushed back, ducking under the dragon’s left wing. The wings, he realized upon looking up, were thin and veinous, like a bat’s. They were a much more vulnerable target—and several singed holes through them proved that Kyle had come to the same conclusion; that his burning arrows had pierced the dragon’s wings, but not yet enough to completely bring her down.

            The dragon snapped her jaw closed and Stan took a few more steps back, held the Valkyrie’s shield out in front of him, and thrust his sword upward into the dragon’s wing. It pierced through her hide, and Stan managed to slice and burn a gaping hole from one joint of her wing to the next.

            In pain, the dragon let out a screeching bellow, lifted her ailing wing, and slammed it back down into the ground. Stan drew back his sword quickly and held the Valkyrie’s shield above his head. The strong shield lessened the blow, but Stan was still brought to one knee from the impact. When the dragon lifted her wing to repeat the attack, Stan rushed back to her wounded leg and thrust his sword in again. The dragon threw back her head and shot a blast of icy breath skyward. Particles of ice fell from above like snow across the battlefield, and given the opportunity, Stan tossed the shield up onto the dragon’s back and used his sword to get his footing and climb up her leg.

            He grabbed onto the joint where her shoulder met her wing, dislodged his sword again, and was just making a dash for the shield when the dragon bucked. The shield flew off her back and onto the ground again, but Stan could not go back for it. He needed to take this chance. The dragon spread her wings again as if to go airborne, but, thinking quickly, Stan drew a steadying breath, took up the hilt of his sword in both hands, and stabbed his enchanted blade down deep into the dragon’s shoulder.

            She roared in agony again and fell forward, her head crashing down onto the field. Stan heard Kyle call out a command again to his archers to fire at her head alone, and one of his own flaming arrows lodged between two of the dragon’s sharp teeth. Stan drew back his sword just as the dragon stumbled forward, her icy breath mixing with the flames that had burned her mouth and turning to smoke as she made for the palace gate.

            When she had found her footing again, she let out yet another blast of her ice breath, aiming for every soldier who opposed her on the field. Stan looked up at her head, and an idea came to him as one of Kyle’s flaming arrows struck her throat. There were spikes jutting out from the back of the dragon’s neck and spine; gathering himself, Stan grabbed hold of one just over his head, and started to climb.

            Fatigue truly was beginning to wear on the dragon, and she began to lash out with her tail as she hid her head from Kyle and the other archers. Had they not been nearing the gate, Stan knew she would inevitably have caused severe harm to the palace; luckily, they were a safe distance away now. Stan looked up at the frayed threads of the forest as he climbed the dragon’s neck, determined to end the damage she already had caused, once and for all.

            As he reached the crown of her head, Stan called out to the field, “My lord! All archers! Fire again!”

            He caught sight of Kyle, even from such a height, and he saw a moment of hesitation as Kyle fitted an arrow to his longbow. Stan nodded down, hoping that Kyle saw, assuring him that he would be safe. “Ready,” Kyle called to the archers. The others prepared their bows. “Aim.”

            Kyle lit the tip of his arrow, and commanded, “Fire.”

            The rest of the archers hit the base of the dragon’s neck and around her right shoulder, but Kyle’s arrow lodged into her snout and singed away several scales. Wounded and once again seething with smoke, the dragon lowered her head and began to open her mouth to breathe out another blast of ice. Stan kept his footing with her movement, and took a deep breath.

            The dragon loosed her jaw for her attack, but Stan made his move first. And he did, as Kyle had wished, strike true.

            Stan brought his sword down on the nape of the dragon’s neck, the enchanted flame scorching away scales and hide, tissue and bone. It was a clean strike, and proved indeed that the _King’s Shield_ was the strongest and keenest blade in all of Larnion.

            The dragon’s head was severed from her body, and the wound scorched shut with the flame.

            The fight was over. Larnion was, however momentarily, safe.

            Stan’s first quest had come at last to an end.

            A cheer rose up among the crowd, and Stan, catching his breath, stepped back and away from the ice dragon’s unmoving body as he heard his soldiers taking into restraints those who had fought for their vanquished foe. He sighed with relief, and looked back at the field, heart beating with pride as he saw Kyle lower his bow and smile.

            It was so good, Stan thought, to see him smile.

            Kyle, in turn, looked on with pride as Stan moved away from the fallen and defeated dragon. When his day had begun, Kyle had told himself that he would play at appeasing his council in hopes of uncovering precisely how the false Princess’s influence worked, and here and now, the scourge was vanquished. His councilors were all being held in restraints. And Stan was home.

            Stan, at last, was home.

            But before Kyle could celebrate the fact, or the victory, one of his councilmen cried out, “Sire, what of the Princess? Where is—”

            “Enough,” Kyle said.

            He handed off his bow and quiver to a squire and sent her away to the armory. Kyle dusted himself off, squared his shoulders, and strode toward where Stan’s guards were holding back the members of the council. They were bent and bowed, all twenty of them, some even on their knees.

            “Look at me,” Kyle commanded, careful not to make his tone harsh despite his anger.

            His councilors obliged.

            “Had I not said, from the beginning, that I was opposed to this arrangement?” Kyle asked his council. “Have I not pleaded you to see reason? Have I not begged you to see that the woman sent here was not behaving like Princess Kenny? Now we find ourselves with a dragon in our lands, and the Princess nowhere to be found.” Tears threatened in Kyle’s eyes, but he did not let them fall. “Imagine,” he said, “what would have happened had Sir Stanley not returned before you _married me off to her.”_

            “Sire—” one councilwoman began to protest.

            “Dark magic cannot cross our borders unless invited,” Kyle interrupted. “You ignored my protests and my warnings, and you welcomed a dragon and a dark weapon into our lands, endangering us all. I will hear your cases tomorrow, but tonight, be confined with the knowledge of what you have done, the knowledge that everyone in this kingdom was put at risk by your willful blindness to reality.”

            The members of his council looked at him with a vague sort of understanding, and none tried to protest his decree. Kyle did not know whether that was due to their finally hearing him, or their respect for the laws that granted his absolute power in wartime. Either way, he was done with them for the time being.

            “Guards,” Kyle ordered, without looking away from his council. His hands clenched into fists, but he kept his calm and did not lash out. To Stan’s guards, Kyle ordered, “Take every member of my council to the prison stronghold with the Princess’s court and soldiers. Lock them all up separately and distantly. I want every single one of them to have this night alone to ruminate on the actions they have taken that led us here.”

            “Yes, sire,” the guards answered in unison. And one by one, the men and women of Kyle’s council were led away.

            Kyle watched them go, then closed his eyes, and took a breath, and unclenched his hands. He wondered for only a fleeting moment whether he might be overreacting, but then he thought of his councilors’ lies; their cover-ups, their rigidity, their unwillingness to listen to his doubts and protests—and he let himself relax. Kyle was High King, absolute, and the threat to his kingdom needed to be fully vanquished. To do that, he needed swift action, which his council would only serve to deter. No; he had made the right decision.

            Besides, he had no shortage of allies now.

            He was certain that, in the coming days, he could determine the warlocks’ true intentions behind their calculated attack; that he could lead Larnion to victory, now that Stan had returned.

            Kyle surveyed the surrounding area, and the faces of those who had come to his kingdom’s aid. “Thank you all for your assistance,” Kyle said to all present. “In a moment, I shall make an address and properly commend those who have pledged their aid to Larnion this day.”

            His gaze fell on several of the others, but his heart was pounding and his head was spinning. Until he was looking only at Stan.

            When Stan lifted his head to look at Kyle, the enchantment on his sword dispersed; the flame gently drifting away, back into the threads of the air. Stan smiled a little, and Kyle’s heart felt, for the first time in days upon days, wonderfully full.

            “But first…” Kyle said, still somewhat to the others, but mostly to Stan.

            Stan smiled more broadly, sheathed his sword, and began walking toward Kyle, unable to think of a single word yet to say.

            “Stan!” Kyle exclaimed. He rushed forward and embraced Stan. Stan caught him, and spun him around once before setting Kyle lightly back onto his feet, with no intention of letting go. Stan returned the embrace, and Kyle rested his head on Stan’s shoulder, allowing himself to feel safe and warm in his knight’s arms. “Oh, Stan. My Stan, you’re here. You’re home. You’re home.”

            “I’m here,” Stan echoed. “I’m not leaving again.”

            Kyle tightened his grip. “How did you…? Where were you…?”

            “It’s a long story,” Stan said.

            “Tell it to me?” Kyle asked. He gripped the fabric of Stan’s cloak and breathed in his scent, laced with the autumn wind from his ride.

            “Of course,” Stan promised. “But surely not now.”

            “No,” said Kyle. “Tonight. I will find you. Oh, I missed you. I missed you.”

            Stan bowed his head, and pulled Kyle just a little closer. “I missed you, too, Kyle.”

            Kyle drew in a shaking breath, buried his face in the crook of Stan’s neck, and let his breath out slowly. Tears of relief fell from his eyes and he did not try to stop them. It had been so long since Stan had called him by name; Kyle felt as though he had just woken from a terrible nightmare, and all was right now that the sun shone again.

            “I suppose I, um…” Stan said, “I suppose I really did need to slay an evil dragon, after all. Not just a hypothetical one.”

            Kyle began laughing, and his tears flowed harder. The two gripped one another tightly, allowing themselves to feel, at least for now, after so much time, safe, and secure. And more in love with every passing second.

            When the two did draw back somewhat from their embrace, the same realization came to them both at once. In the long span of the weeks that had forced the two apart, Stan had grown a little, as humans were known to do. Kyle did not mind one bit. Their eyes were now perfectly level.

            Kyle’s eyes glimmered with his fading tears, and he gently rested his forehead on Stan's, and placed his hands over Stan's heart. “Oh, my beloved champion,” Kyle said, hardly above a whisper, keeping the words a beautiful secret for only the two of them to hear, “I cannot wait to hear all about your quest. But for now…”

            Stan was in the public’s presence, but the council was gone, detained to the prisons until further notice. They were surrounded only by those he and Kyle trusted. So Stan, heart swelling with delight and pride, placed a kiss on Kyle’s cheek. When he stood back, Kyle’s face was flushed and radiant, and Stan said, “Go. Be wonderful, as I know you are.”

            Kyle showed a fond, brilliant smile, then stepped back, gathered himself, and turned to address all present. He opened out his arms, and took two steps forward. “People and allies of Larnion,” he announced, “the dragon and the Hammer of Storms have been vanquished, and your Captain of the Guard has returned.”

            A cheer rose up among the crowd. Kyle turned to smile at Stan one more time, so proud and relieved to have him home, then turned back to continue his address.

            “I must thank you all,” said Kyle. “Those of you who stand before me, you are the true allies of my kingdom, and you have my thanks for your dedication. The fight is won today, but the battle is not over. We must be on alert tonight. Safeguard this palace, this forest, this realm however you can. But I must know the names of those who have come from beyond my borders, before I can weave the protection we need.”

            There was silence for a moment, and then Wendy dismounted and strode forward. She did not kneel, but she placed a hand over her heart, which, from a Valkyrie, showed the same reverence. “I am Commander Wendy of the Valkyrie,” she said, “and these are my sisters. We offer our steel to you in your time of need, at the request of your champion.”

            “Valkyrie?” Kyle said in astonishment. He turned to Stan, who nodded his affirmation. Cautiously but proudly, Kyle looked again at Wendy. “You have my thanks,” he said. “You are welcome in my kingdom, Commander. Inform my guard should you require anything.”

            “Understood,” said Wendy, before returning to her sisters in arms.

            “And you,” Kyle said to Clyde. “Step forward. Who are you?”

            Clyde glanced around, then bowed his head and walked a few paces forward. He lowered himself to both knees when he was only a few steps away from Kyle and Stan, and said, “My name is Clyde, your highness. I am a ranger from the Midlands.”

            “Clyde?” Kyle repeated. “I’ve heard that name before.”

            “I know,” was all Clyde said.

            “Were you not the vessel of the Demon King ten years ago?”

            “I was, your highness.”

            Kyle’s breath stalled, but he remained steadfast. “Show me your hands, Clyde.”

            Clyde hesitated a moment, and then obliged, raising up his palms and keeping his head bowed. Kyle took in the sight and gasped.

            “Tell me, Clyde,” Kyle said, “what have you done, these past ten years?”

            “Less than I could have, your highness. I’m sorry.”

            “I did not ask after what you did not do. What _have_ you done?”

            Clyde looked up, then instantly bowed his head again, and lowered his hands. “I am a ranger, your highness,” he said. “I am a man for hire. Protection, mostly.”

            “Is that so?”

            “Yes, your highness,” said Clyde. Carefully, he drew forth the powerless Hammer of Storms from his belt, and held it in his upturned hands. “I was hired by your knight for assistance on his quest, sire,” he continued, “but I have since pledged to serve you both and will not insist upon a fee. I owe it to you, sire, and I can offer you this weapon as proof of what I’ve said. I owe my services to your kingdom.”

            “Oh?”

            “I was rendered impervious to dark magic, sire. And I have little to lose.”

            “Really?” Kyle asked, knowing that such a truth could well be put to use in the current time of need. “Is that how you destroyed the hammer?”

            “Yes, sire.”

            Kyle took pause, studying the man kneeling before him. He had known Clyde as a boy for a fleeting few minutes, but Kyle knew that Clyde had had the potential to be more than he thought he was. More than a weak child who had been a possessed vessel of dark magic.

            Kyle waved the guard with the scroll over to him, and held a hand out. The knight handed over the parchment, and Kyle took a deep breath, then held the scroll out to Clyde. “Read this,” Kyle ordered.

            Clyde picked his head up, and tucked away the hammer again. He studied the scroll for a second, then looked up again at Kyle. “Your highness?” Clyde asked.

            “I saw the warlock penmanship,” Kyle said. “I need to know what this says, but I dare not study it too closely or ask anyone to read it aloud, for fear of what may yet lurk on these pages. If you are impervious to dark magic, you should be able to read these words without invoking anything that may be woven into the ink or parchment. Can you read?”

            “I… I can, sire.”

            “Then read this, and tell me what it says. Tell me what our enemies meant by sending a dragon in the guise of my friend to threaten my people.”

            Clyde nodded, and said, “Yes, sire,” and carefully took the scroll.

            Kyle stood back, and kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, knowing he could not be too cautious. Clyde unraveled the parchment and studied it for a moment. Kyle glanced down, and saw that the aura around the ranger’s hands was pulsing with a soft light, casting protection and dispelling any hidden terrors added to the warlocks’ words.

            “It’s an agreement, your highness,” Clyde summarized. “Princess Kenny agreed to ask for your hand and therefore weaken your borders in exchange for her captured sister.” Gasps and murmurs went up around the crowd. “She also agreed to expose a… weakness of yours? Your highness?” Clyde glanced up.

            “Keep going,” Kyle said, pushing onward. No doubt that it meant his human lineage. His council may have known, but the rest of his kingdom did not. Exposing his truth by underhanded means would surely weaken the trust of those who looked to him to lead.

            “That’s all, sire,” Clyde said. “Oh, and a footnote. She would not plot against the warlocks, else she would willingly give herself up to be removed and replaced.”

            “I see,” Kyle said. “And thus, the dragon. Thank you, Clyde. I know now where we might begin.” Clyde rolled up the parchment again, and before he could give it back to the knight, Kyle said, “No. Please, hold onto it. I do not trust it, but you have given me reason to trust you. I want you to keep those parchments on your person to nullify any darkness they may possess. You will be guarded by some of my soldiers, but you are welcome in my kingdom for the time being.”

            “Sire?”

            “There are accommodations for you and for the Valkyrie nearby the palace.”

            Clyde stared up at Kyle, then looked over at Stan. Finally, he bowed his head one more time, and said humbly, “Thank you, your highness.” He then stood, and moved back toward the Valkyrie.

            Kyle stood back and surveyed the land within the palace gates, as well as the threads of the forest. Already the frays were beginning to mend, now that the source of darkness was gone. Still, Kyle could not be too cautious; he needed to protect all he could.

            “Tomorrow,” Kyle announced, “we begin our investigations into the whereabouts of Princess Karen and the real Princess Kenny. If this comes to battle, then so be it, but we will not march west unprepared. We must do whatever is necessary to take action soon, before the Princesses can come to harm. For now, I will weave protection for the immediate area, but I will need the guard, and the Valkyrie to whatever extent you are able, to patrol the kingdom. Be on alert. Inform me, or inform Sir Stanley should anything seem amiss, or should any messenger from the West try to enter our lands.”

            Feldspar spoke: “The forest is under the Creek’s protection, my lord. Should you need any assistance in conjuring shields, you have my hands.”

            “Thank you, Feldspar,” Kyle said. “For now, do keep the forest safe. I’m going to further strengthen our resistance here in the palace.” It was a complicated spell, but one he had mastered at a young age. No one in the kingdom could weave barriers as well or as skillfully as Kyle. “If any remaining items or persons possessed of dark magic should be within, they will be forced out.”

            Kyle sought out a good place to stand, where the sun shone and where he could be in relative solitude at the center of everything. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, tuning into the warmth of the sun and the hum of the earth, and he held out his hands for silence. In the stillness, he breathed in the surrounding aura of the forest, and readied himself.

            Kyle opened his eyes and held his hands out in front of him, palms up, as if cradling a sacred offering. He tilted back his head, and in a flash of light, the staff of his ancestors appeared in his upturned hands. Kyle clasped his fingers around the staff, bowed his head to acknowledge its power, then spun it over his head and stabbed it down forcefully into the ground. The staff sent out a pulse of energy, reading and amplifying the threads of magic in the palace and forest. Kyle stepped back only slightly, leaving the staff where it was. After a moment, the staff began to glow… and then, so did Kyle.

            Watching Kyle perform complex magic had always been a delight to Stan, and he looked on that day in adoration and pride. Kyle’s eyes were half-lidded, his shoulders relaxed, his heels close together with his toes pointed outward. His hands danced swimmingly through the air a foot away from his face, half knitting and half searching as he used his Sight, amplified by the staff, to pluck only the finest threads of magic from the aura of his forest to form a grand shield around the palace and its yards.

            Shimmering silver light became known above and all around the ancient elven palace, sparking first from Kyle’s fingertips before shooting upward and outward in a promise to keep everyone within the net safe and secure.

            As soon as the shield was completed, the dragon’s head and body were forced out beyond it, and lay now in the underbrush at the edge of the forest. Not even a drop of blood remained within; not a single scale was not forced out of the King’s protective barrier.

            Kyle looked on and above, and smiled at his completed work. But the effort had taken much of his energy, and he stumbled forward as soon as he dismissed his staff back into the aether of the land. Stan, however, was quick to catch him, and held him up as he regained his footing. Kyle caught his breath, and gratefully held onto his knight for support.

            Kyle lifted his head, looked around again at the shield he had created, then let out a relieved sigh and said, “Thank you, Stan.”

            “Thank _you,_ Kyle,” Stan said in return. “You’ve secured our safety. Ours, and all of Larnion.”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, and he smiled. “As have you.”

            “Will you be all right?” Stan asked.

            Kyle felt his heart pounding, knowing of the truths he would soon need to reveal to Stan. Of all that they could now say—all that they might possibly, possibly be—with the dragon gone and with Stan home at last. But such things would come later.

            “I will admit,” Kyle said, glad that his council was not around to hear, “that I do need rest after such a spell. But soon thereafter, Stan, I will find you,” he promised.

            “Of course,” Stan said fondly, not letting go.

            Kyle showed a grateful smile again, then looked out to his allies.

            “Feldspar,” Kyle said. “Take the remains of the dragon and be rid of them. Do whatever you must to ensure they no longer prove a threat to my kingdom. Tonight, we will have peace.”

            “Consider it done,” Feldspar answered. He nodded to Wendy and her Valkyrie, and a silent plan was formed between them.

            And it was indeed, at last, a night of peace as Kyle had declared.

            A night of peace, and of passion, and of promises.

– – –


	12. XII. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stan and Kyle are granted a quiet evening together, to discuss with one another at last their respective recently uncovered truths, and to discover something new.

            Stan sent his most trusted guards to the prison stronghold to keep watch over the detained soldiers, advisors, and councilors, and appointed two to keep watch over Leopold alone. Commander Wendy obliged Stan’s request for two Valkyrie to keep watch over the stronghold as well.

            Stan remained with Kyle.

            Kyle was exhausted, from days of pushing against his council, of amplifying his abilities, of keeping his flame at embers with the exception of practicing his arts despite his every instinct to attack the threat to his kingdom. From the heightened magic he had performed that day. He was grateful that the enchantment had held on Stan’s sword long enough to defeat the dragon, and that he could weave a shield of protection over his palace that would hold until the time came again to march into battle.

            But for now, Kyle could rest.

            If the false Princess had frozen his world, now came the peaceful thaw.

            Once all others had received orders and gone to their tasks, Stan offered Kyle his arm and escorted him back into the palace. When the doors were closed behind them, Kyle looked up at the vaulted copper ceilings, at the warm and quiet halls. Tears filled his eyes and he let out a long, shaking breath.

            There were still many uncertainties that lay ahead, but for now, the challenge was over. Kyle had never felt so free.

            He covered his mouth with one hand, bowed his head, and closed his eyes and let the tears come. In an instant, Stan’s arms were around him, and the two held tightly to one another, both shedding tears for relief that the current dangers had passed.

            When Kyle had gathered his breath enough to speak, the first words he whispered were, “You came back.”

            “Of course I did, Kyle,” Stan said gently.

            “I never doubted,” Kyle said, “but I missed you so.”

            “And I missed you,” Stan said. “Every day.” Kyle drew back enough to look Stan in the eyes, and Stan smiled and continued, “And I have never been more proud to call Larnion my home.”

            “What?” Kyle asked, his voice still hardly above a whisper. He rested a hand against Stan’s cheek and brushed a tear away with his thumb as he said, “Of course this is your home, Stan.”

            Stan managed a smile, and gently brushed a few stray wisps of Kyle’s tangled hair away from his eyes. “I know,” Stan said, his tone soft. “Every day that I was gone, Kyle, know that my heart was here with you.”

            Kyle pulled Stan close again for another warm embrace. “And my heart,” Kyle said, “traveled with you.” Stan returned the embrace, then lifted his left hand to cradle the back of Kyle’s head when Kyle bent to rest against Stan’s shoulder. Remembering his desperate plea to be held, weeks before, Kyle clung to Stan’s back and said, “I’m so sorry if anything I said drove you away. I never intended to hurt you.”

            “You could never hurt me, Kyle,” Stan assured him, gently stroking Kyle’s hair. “I’m sorry if my actions wounded you. You are the dearest person in the world to me. I would never have acted in such a way toward you were our lives not on the line.”

            Kyle gasped and lifted his head to meet Stan’s eyes again. “Were you threatened?” he had to know.

            Stan sighed. “Leopold said many things to threaten us both,” Stan explained. “His words were not his own, but that does not change what happened. I promise, I’ll explain everything, when we are fully alone.”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, resting his head again on Stan’s shoulder, still holding tight. “Yes, of course.” He closed his eyes, and felt as though he could drift to sleep then and there, secure in Stan’s arms.

            He truly did begin to drift off for a second, but managed to shake himself awake. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I want nothing more than to talk to you, and hold you, but I must rest.”

            “I understand,” Stan said. “The magic you performed today was exemplary, Kyle. Take all the time you need.”

            Kyle felt tears pool in his eyes again, but he blinked them away. Every moment drew him closer to revealing his full truth to Stan. Kyle did not know where to begin. He hated that his thoughts drifted, now, to wondering why he felt the need to rest to regain his strength. Was it because, Kyle wondered, his human blood truly did place limitations on his abilities, or had his council’s lifelong insistence that he keep his lessons short harmed his true potential?

            He left his questions for another time, and let Stan escort him up the stairs to his bedchamber. As soon as they reached the door, Kyle flushed, and turned, and stood with both hands in the doorway, remembering the ‘gift’ from Thresher that he’d hidden on his bookshelf.

            “Is everything all right?” Stan asked, concerned.

            “Ah—fine, yes, well,” Kyle said with a nervous smile, leaning to one side of the doorframe and flushing all the more for want of sleep. He cleared his throat. “I… I’m quite tired, is all,” Kyle said. “I shall… I know I shall be awake again before the sun goes down.” He smiled, and took hold of Stan’s shoulders, and fondly kissed Stan’s forehead. “I promise, I will meet you then.” He drew back for only a moment, then dared to lean in close again, press his cheek to Stan’s, and call him, “My love.”

            When he did stand back, Stan was beaming, and Kyle felt his entire world fall back into place, just as it should be. “The stables, then?” Stan asked, flushed with the delight of the new form of address Kyle had introduced.

            “Yes,” Kyle said. “Unless we happen to meet along the way.”

            Stan laughed a little, then, moving cautiously but kindly, he took up Kyle’s right hand in both of his, and kissed the back of it. “Until then,” he said, lifting his head again. “Rest well, Kyle.”

            Kyle’s heart seemed to beat faster than he’d ever felt it. “Yes,” he said. And, before they could part for the time being: “Welcome home, Stan.”

            Stan smiled again, and stepped back, and watched as Kyle retreated into his bedchamber and quietly closed the door. He drew in a deep, sweet breath, and sighed it out, relieved to know that Kyle was safe from harm, that the two remained just as close as they had ever been despite the awful way Stan had been forced to act in the days leading up to his departure. And his heart was so full, as the warmth of Kyle’s words surged through him like a pulse: _my love._

            Kyle had confessed his love to Stan on the day before the false Princess’s arrival, and the two had not had the chance to speak on the matter yet at all. Stan thought back to his sister’s own choice of words, freely and easily asking after Kyle _as Stan’s love._ And the moment would come; at long last, words of love could indeed be spoken between them, and Stan cherished the thought.

            He remained still for a moment, then felt heat rise in his face and turned his head to look at the elven door guard, who had been very much on duty throughout Stan’s entire conversation with Kyle. Stan gathered himself and moved aside, and squared his shoulders, and stood on the opposite side of the door from his soldier, outwardly facing the hall. “Thank you for keeping your post,” Stan said to the guard.

            “The King has remained safe in your absence, Sir,” said the door guard, not passing judgment over what he had just witnessed. It was not the man’s place, sure, but Stan could tell from his tone that he had not been bothered. “If you don’t mind my saying, Captain,” the guard continued, “we have all been eagerly awaiting your return. Your command was followed, Sir, but your presence was missed.”

            Stan felt a sense of both pride and relief wash over him. He took a few steps into the hall and turned so that he could face the door guard. “You have my thanks,” Stan said.

            The guard bowed his head to acknowledge Stan’s recognition of his work, then stood alert again. Stan left the guard to his duty, cast one more look at the door to Kyle’s bedchamber, smiled, and continued down the hall with slow, purposeful strides.

            The walls of the palace reflected the autumnal glow of the afternoon, warm and familiar. Stan took his time as he began the route of what usually were his morning rounds. It was mid-afternoon, but Stan had missed days upon days of his usual duties, and he wanted to fill the time he had before dusk to truly restore in himself a sense of home. Nearly three weeks he had been away, with each day as unpredictable as the one that had preceded it, but now he was back where he knew he belonged.

            His soldiers had not abandoned his command. And he was immensely grateful to the guard at Kyle’s door for calling Stan his _Captain._ It was the title that Stan had truly worked for, had dreamed of as a child and won in an historic Tournament. It was the life he had created for himself, and he had reclaimed it at last.

            More than his absence, too, it had been well over a month since Stan had been able, without Leopold’s fearsome hovering, to have a real conversation with Kyle. But just like that, the world was spinning as it should again, and the two could carry on once more as they always had.

            But Stan did wonder how indeed to begin telling Kyle of his quest. Of how he had met Clyde, and Commander Wendy. And his sister. How would he tell Kyle about his sister?

            Stan shook his head, knowing that answers would come when the moment presented itself. For now, he gladly walked the halls of Kyle’s palace. Of his home.

            At the end of the hall on the second storey, near the northern tower, something in the air still seemed a bit amiss. A guard was stationed as they usually were outside the door to Ike’s chambers, and Stan approached to ask, “Where is the young lord? I haven’t seen him since my return. He didn’t try to join the battle, did he?”

            “Sir Stanley!” said the knight on guard, looking, as had the others, glad to see him. “No, Sir, the young lord is not here.”

            “Not here?” Stan asked, concerned, and indeed somewhat fearful for Kyle’s heir.

            “No, Sir,” said the guard. “The King asked me to keep his absence secret from all but you, should you return, Sir.”

            “Then he knows?” Stan surmised.

            “Indeed he does,” said the guard. “I have been told only that the young lord is safe. Should I remain at my post, Sir?”

            “Yes,” Stan decided. “No harm in keeping the peace as usual.”

            “Of course, Sir.”

            Stan nodded to the guard and took his leave to continue his rounds.

            He checked on the others going about their tasks, and watched from within Kyle’s magically-woven shield as Commander Wendy’s Valkyrie tied ropes round the fallen dragon’s body to begin hauling it away under Feldspar’s command. Stan made then for the stables, also falling within the shield, to be sure the horse that had served him for the past three weeks had been well tended to.

            A squire was tending to the steed, and the parcel from Stan’s sister lay carefully to the side. Stan asked the squire to bring the parcel to his quarters when she had finished her work with the horse, and the squire obliged, also welcoming her Captain home. Stan smiled, thanked her, and began a slow pace back to the palace.

            He assessed the damage as he could—some palace attendants were already at work cleaning claw marks off the polished floors that had been left by the dragon when she left the council chamber. Stan looked in on the chamber itself, then drew a deep breath and boldly stepped inside. Little damage had been done, and workers were setting the room aright. And Stan would never be shut out again. He had attended council meetings as Kyle’s bodyguard for years, and the false Princess’s order no longer held.

            Finally, Stan visited the quiet library. A few books, clearly selected by Kyle himself given the subject matter of flame enchantment, still lay on one of the reading tables. Stan drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, thinking back on his sister’s library, then opened his eyes again and walked to a drawing table, cut a length of parchment, selected a quill, and began to write a letter to Shelley.

            He thanked her for her generosity, and promised a return. But only to visit, possibly to meet their mother; not to reside. He wrote on the battle with the dragon, knowing she would want to hear of it, and assured her that his King was safe, and that her Princesses would soon be found. Stan gave the letter and directions to a messenger, then returned to his own quarters at last.

            Everything was, of course, just as Stan had left it. He hung his sword on the wall, then gathered a pitcher full of water from a barrel he kept toward the front, undressed, and began to treat his wounds from the battle. As he did, he thought back on the day and let himself feel proud. He had accomplished much; defeated a dragon, even. And all once again at Kyle’s side. Just as it should be.

– – –

            Not long after darkness had fallen, Stan began pulling on his boots, preparing to meet with Kyle in the stables. He had changed from his uniform into a loose white tunic and simple trousers for the evening, which he had not had the luxury to do in some time. For the first time in weeks, Stan could breathe easily, grateful for the added net of protection that Kyle had woven over the palace and grounds.

            He was home. Kyle was safe and well. And Stan assured himself again that he had made the right decision—to return to Larnion and complete his quest and continue living his life as a knight. A noble life like that his sister led was not for Stan. His life was indeed entirely for Larnion, and for Kyle.

            Stan had taken the time that evening to carefully fold away the fine clothing from his sister and tuck the items into a chest. His entire visit to the manor had already started to feel like a dream, but he was glad he had the reminders.

            Just as Stan was wondering again how to tell Kyle about that particular part of his journey, and how best to begin their conversation that evening, a light, almost hesitant knock came at the door. Boots unlaced, Stan rose to answer it, and was perplexed but overjoyed to see Kyle standing on the other side. Kyle flushed slightly red, and drew back his right hand, which had been raised to knock again. He held his hands over his own heart, looking just as surprised and overjoyed that Stan had answered.

            Kyle was wearing a long, royal green evening robe, embroidered with golden scrollwork and tied at the waist with a shimmering cord. The robe brought out his eyes, Stan thought. But he did not say that. Instead, he asked, “Kyle, what are you doing down here? Is everything all right?”

            Kyle did not verbally answer. His green eyes glistened with expectant tears, and a small, sweet smile of relief crossed his face. He stepped inside as Stan stepped back, closed the door behind him, and then, hesitating for only a second, pulled Stan close for a kiss.

            Both shocked from the suddenness of the action, Stan and Kyle pulled back, each locked in the other’s gaze. Kyle gasped and covered his mouth with his left hand, worried that he had done something wrong but, Stan could clearly see, with eyes full of nothing but admiration and love. Stan felt a wave of delight and passion wash over him, and he gently took hold of Kyle’s left wrist in his right hand. Carefully, lovingly, Stan drew Kyle’s hand to his lips, and kissed the heel of Kyle’s palm, and then the side of his hand, and then the backs of his fingers.

            Kyle blinked out his tears and took a brave step closer to Stan, his breath catching at the realization of the moment the two had found themselves in. Starved for contact, Kyle took Stan’s face in his hands and carefully guided him in. Trembling with anticipation, Stan lowered his hands to Kyle’s waist, and held him tenderly in return.

            And for the first time, after years of the two individually aching for such pleasure, Stan and Kyle shared a long, affirming kiss. They parted for a breath and instantly kissed again. Kyle’s mouth was warm on Stan’s, and Stan wondered if all kisses felt like this, or if Kyle’s were accentuated by his inner flame. Stan welcomed it dearly, either way.

            Kyle lowered his hands to Stan’s chest, one palm over his heart, and Stan dared to raise up one hand to touch his fingertips to the side of Kyle’s face. Stan stroked his thumb along the beautifully carved angle of Kyle’s slender cheekbone, and then along his firm but delicate jaw, and then he held Kyle’s chin in his hand and met him with another kiss.

            Kyle delivered one more kiss, and then pulled Stan into him, holding him so close it was difficult to tell where one’s breath ended and the other’s began. “Oh, my Stan,” Kyle whispered gratefully. “My knight, my own. I couldn’t wait another second to meet you at the stables. And we don’t need to hide, Stan, not anymore. I had to find you right away.”

            “I’m glad you did,” Stan said.

            “Never leave my sight again,” Kyle begged, already on the verge of tears again. “Please. Please, stay with me, and never go.”

            “I’m here, Kyle,” Stan said, his honorable refrain. “I’m here.”

            “Where did you go?” Kyle asked. “What did you do? Spare no details. But, oh, let me look at you…”

            Stan smiled and drew back, letting his eyes meet Kyle’s. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.

            For the first time in many long weeks, Kyle showed a broad, satisfied smile. “I would love one.”

            Neither moved just yet. Kyle lowered his arms to hold Stan about the waist, and Stan set his hands gently on Kyle’s upper arms, moving his thumbs slowly back and forth as further reassurance that the moment was real. Stan rested his forehead on Kyle’s, and Kyle closed his eyes to indulge in the warmth of the contact. Kyle felt Stan’s chest rise and fall against his own with each breath, and joy ruled Kyle’s every thought, knowing that Stan was not only nearby, but closer than he had ever been.

            Kyle had been envisioning just such a moment for so long, and now that it had arrived, he wanted to paint every instant on the canvas of his memory, down to the last detail. Eyes still closed, he felt Stan’s heart begin to beat just a little faster, and then Stan’s lips covered his again. Kyle’s eyes fluttered open to meet Stan’s for a second, then closed again as the kiss became deeper, warmer; ever more beautiful than anything he could have imagined.

            He let out a light hum of pleasure and brought up his right hand to cradle the back of Stan’s head as they kissed, gently pressing his fingertips into Stan’s short, thick hair in the pulse of their rhythm.

            The loneliness, the emptiness, the worry and regret that both had felt since Stan’s departure seemed to melt away, as with each new kiss the two began to build upon something more, something new; something wholly their own.

            Stan felt his heart pounding as he drew back, wanting both to speak to Kyle for hours on end and to embrace the warm and beautiful quiet that had surrounded their every kiss. Even knowing that they had kissed was such a welcome delight to Stan; they had moved now beyond the realms of status, beyond even the realms of mere friendship. Into something unknown and wonderful.

            Stan gave Kyle one more kiss, then took hold of both his hands and guided him into an area to the inner right of the door. Stan’s days were always so full, he rarely used his quarters but for rest, but he kept a few provisions on shelves in the small but well-carved front area. Two short chairs sat against one wall, and a wooden bench carved by master crafters from the nearest village sat against another, which itself was close to an opening that led back toward Stan’s bedchamber.

            “I’m sorry my accommodations are rather sparse,” Stan said.

            “Nonsense,” Kyle said, taking a seat on the fine wooden bench. “I think your quarters are quite wonderful, Stan. You know, it’s a shame I never really had many opportunities to visit.”

            Stan smiled, and bent at the waist to kiss Kyle’s temple. “I’m glad you’re here now,” Stan said. He brushed his right hand back through Kyle’s hair, tucking a few loose wisps and curls behind Kyle’s left ear.

            Kyle flushed, and stroked his fingertips lightly along Stan’s shoulder. “As am I,” he said.

            Stan smiled brightly, and kissed him again, then stood back and took down two small cups and a flagon of mead from a shelf mounted on the opposite wall. The flagon was an enchanted one, keeping its contents fresh and cold; the handiwork of elven craftsmen. Stan poured mead into the two cups, and managed not to spill as Kyle confessed, “I came by as often as I could while you were gone. Just in case.”

            Stan gasped, and turned to face Kyle. Kyle’s hands were folded in his lap, and he was nervously moving the fingers of his right hand back and forth against the back of his left… an anxious tick to keep more tears at bay. “I missed you,” Kyle whispered.

            Stan picked up the two cups and walked back over to Kyle. He set the cups down by the bench, then knelt before his dearest friend, lay his hands over Kyle’s, and said, “I missed you, too. Please know that I wanted to return, and that fleeing when I did was the best thing I could have done, for both of us.”

            Kyle nodded, looking down at their clasped hands. “I know,” he said. He lifted his head again, and said, “I just… I feel awful, Stan. For how I behaved that night in the stables, before you went away.”

            “Oh, Kyle, no, that—”

            Kyle shook his head. “I never meant to get so angry, but I… I was scared, Stan,” he said, “I was so confused, and lost. You were with me and yet you weren’t, and I didn’t know what to do. I never meant to shout orders at you, Stan, please know that. I didn’t mean…”

            “I know,” Stan said soothingly. He moved to sit on the bench, touched his forehead to Kyle’s, and felt Kyle draw and let out a calming breath. “I know,” Stan repeated. “It’s all right. I feel awful, too, about how I had been acting. Leopold’s threats against me grew every day, and I had to play into it to keep us both from harm.”

            Kyle smiled through his tears, and freed one hand to pet it back through Stan’s hair. “My brave knight,” he said. “You truly are Larnion’s champion.”

            “My noble King,” Stan said in return. “You are indeed the heart of the realm.”

            Kyle smiled again, and stroked his thumb a few times against Stan’s hair. He gave Stan a grateful kiss, then sat back, brushed away his tears, and said, “Your quest, Stan. Tell me all about it? I’m aching to know.”

            “Ah,” Stan said. “Yes, of course.” He brushed a hand against Kyle’s shoulder for further reassurance, then took up the cups again and handed one to Kyle.

            “To your return,” Kyle said, raising his cup. “And to the truth, revealed at last.”

            “Yes,” Stan agreed. “And to your health and happiness, Kyle.”

            Kyle set his free hand on Stan’s lap, and curled his fingers in. “I am happy,” he said, “knowing that you are home.”

            Stan kissed Kyle’s cheek, then sat back as they raised their cups to honor their words. They each took a drink, and then Stan began his story.

            He touched on the events leading to his journey, telling Kyle of how he discovered the false Princess’s true nature, how he fled with the help of the Creek. Kyle listened, enthralled, as Stan described the tavern, and how he came to know Clyde and Commander Wendy; about each visit to each village; about the dragonslayers, and the libraries.

            “I gathered as much information as I could,” Stan explained. “My search was for anything at all that would provide me the evidence I needed to bring back to the council to expose the false Princess.”

            “And you succeeded,” Kyle said with pride. “I knew you’d return victorious, Stan. I knew that there had to have been something awful that drove you away.”

            “I’m so sorry I had to leave as suddenly as I did, Kyle,” Stan said again. “It was the only way I could protect you.”

            “It’s all right,” Kyle said. “I received word here and there from the Creek. I knew that you were all right.”

            Stan smiled. “And I you,” he said. He paused a moment, took another small drink, then set his cup to the side and asked, “Kyle, did the Creek tell you where I was going on the last stop of my journey?”

            Kyle set down his own cup as well, and looked Stan expectantly in the eyes. “No,” he said. “Is that where you came by the parchments?” Stan nodded. “Is everything all right?” Kyle wondered in worry. “Did you have to enter into battle, or…?”

            “No,” Stan said. “Nothing like that.” Carefully, he took up Kyle’s hands. Stan still barely could believe his own truths, but perhaps telling Kyle would make them seem all the more real. “Kyle,” he said, “I have a sister.”

            Kyle gasped. “Really? Did you meet her, Stan?”

            “I did.”

            “Is everything all right?” Kyle fretted. “Was she unkind to you? Was it an unpleasant meeting?”

            “No, no… unexpected, but not at all unpleasant, not exactly,” Stan said. “She was very kind to me, and welcomed me into her home. I found the parchments among her books. She has a beautiful library. Or, I suppose it’s… it’s my mother’s library. I left before I could meet her.”

            “Your mother?” Kyle asked under his breath. After his first year in Larnion, Stan had stopped discussing his family entirely. He had moved on, and Kyle had always respected Stan’s choice; had never initiated conversation that might stir up bad memories for Stan. To hear of them now, after so long, was a surprise, but Kyle listened intently, and clasped Stan’s hands tightly for support, knowing that such a discovery must not have been easy.

            Stan nodded. “There is still so much I can’t recall from my life before I met you, Kyle,” he said, slowly letting the words come as they would. “I do recall my older sister, in fragments, and meeting her again now helped me to understand where I came from. My mother sent me away with the intent of my attending school, so I have learned, but I fell from the carriage, and they never knew. My sister confirmed that they thought me dead.”

            “Oh, Stan…” Kyle started, afraid that such news may have caused Stan any sorrow.

            “It’s all right,” Stan said. “I… I really can’t imagine my life had it gone the way my mother must have planned. But I… Kyle, I…”

            “Yes?” Kyle asked.

            Stan took a deep breath. “We had so little when I was small,” Stan said, “but after I was gone, my mother remarried.” Stan looked down and felt his eyes cloud. “She became a baroness,” Stan said with some difficulty. “I’m… I could have been the son of a baroness.”

            Kyle gasped and covered his mouth with one hand. He recovered quickly and lowered his hand, moving instead to brush hesitant tears from the corner of Stan’s left eye. “Stan…” he started again.

            “I had the opportunity to stay,” Stan said. “To become her son again, to… to become noble, and therefore… but I couldn’t, Kyle. I couldn’t. I am a knight. I am _your_ knight. Even if I hadn’t found those documents, I would have come back to you before it was too late. I would have come up with something, somehow. But it was an option, and I nearly took it, for I would do anything, Kyle, anything in the world for you.”

            “Oh, my darling,” Kyle said, pulling Stan in and holding him close. Stan held him tightly in return, grateful for his decision. “You needn’t be a nobleman to be _noble,_ Stan, that’s what I believe.”

            Stan could think of nothing else to say but, “Thank you.” He clung to Kyle’s back, careful as he could be not to disturb the fine silk of Kyle’s robe. Stan thought about the clothing from his sister, and how it in turn had made him think of Kyle. He let out a grateful sigh, and sat back.

            “And oh, Stan, you are a knight,” Kyle affirmed, stroking his hands down Stan’s arms. “The finest the kingdom has ever known.” Smiling, he added, “And look at you, Stan, you’ve even returned triumphant from a quest, and slain a dragon!”

            Stan managed to laugh a little. “I suppose I have,” he said. He sat in thought for a moment, wondering how much differently the days would have gone had he signed the documents with his mother. How would he have defeated the dragon? Would he have vanquished her at all, or would the matter have been delayed by yet more discussion? Or some sort of duel for Kyle’s hand? No, Stan decided; best not to think on that. He had returned as a knight, and fought as a knight, and kept his kingdom safe as he had promised.

            “And you, Kyle?” Stan asked. “How did you manage against the false Princess and her paladin?” He paused a moment, then wondered, “And where is Ike?”

            “Oh, Ike is with the Creek,” Kyle said. “The false Princess threatened his life, so I hid him. I don’t feel safe, I don’t feel right taking him back until all of this is over, and we’ve ended the warlocks’ schemes, whatever they may be, once and for all.”

            “That seems like it’s for the best,” said Stan. “Kyle,” he asked after a second of contemplation, “how did the Creek come to follow you? I don’t know if I ever learned.”

            “No? Oh,” said Kyle. “You know, we never made a formal agreement. It’s almost as if they have always been here. I asked them once if they wanted to become knights, to study with you, and they refused. I didn’t quite know what to think of them at first, but they saved me from a boar during a hunting lesson when I became separated from my tutor when I was very young, and have been guarding my forest ever since. I owe much to them.”

            “As do I,” Stan said.

            Kyle showed the grin he always did when excited to share a secret, and told Stan, “We’ll have to visit their cottage soon, then.”

            “Cottage?” Stan laughed, curling up his nose. “The Creek don’t live in a cottage.”

            “Oh, but they do.”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            “Neither would I. But you’ll see.”

            They shared a bout of laughter at the notion, and then Kyle began his own story, beginning with the moment he realized that Stan was gone; the first conversation he had had with Feldspar shortly thereafter. He spoke of the false Princess’s unrelenting coldness, of the terrifying sway she held over Kyle’s council, of Leopold’s ceaseless treachery, and Kyle’s escape with Ike to the forest. But he could not continue until all, truly all, was revealed.

            “Stan,” Kyle said, tracing his fingers along the open collar of Stan’s tunic. “Stan, you’re not the only one who has lately uncovered crucial information.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Kyle sighed, and pressed a kiss to Stan’s collarbone. Stan welcomed it, and hugged Kyle close. “I am…” Kyle began. He took a deep breath to ready himself, and sat back to look Stan in the eyes. “I am one-quarter human. The rumors were true, Stan. I possess human blood.”

            Stan gasped, but his expression was understanding and kind.

            “I am still mostly elf,” Kyle continued, “and am by every right High King, but, I… I’m partially human, too.”

            “Oh… oh, Kyle, but that’s…” Stan began, not entirely sure how to continue. “How is that possible?”

            “On my mother’s side,” Kyle said. “The treaty between the Princess and the warlocks mentioned an exploitable weakness of mine. I know that this is precisely what our enemies intended to use to destroy me. The Princess… the dragon cornered me and told me everything. They know that I can fall and not recover. They know that I can yet again fall ill. They know how easily I can bleed.”

            Stan set his steady hands on Kyle’s shoulders and clasped them gently. “Kyle…” he started again. “Kyle, are you all right? When did you learn this? How long have you known? I… I’m so sorry you had to weather hearing such truths alone, I…”

            “I’m all right,” Kyle assured Stan. He set his hands in Stan’s lap, and smiled for his dearest friend. Now that the words had been spoken, Kyle was glad to be able to discuss his truth at last. “It… it was a shock, yes. Of course it was. But now I know exactly what my council was always trying to safeguard from me. It’s a bit liberating, really. To know. And… oh, Stan, yes, I wished so badly that you could have been here on the day I found out, but I haven’t known for long. And you are here now. And it is such a relief to tell you.”

            Stan blinked out a few tears, out of regret for not being able to have returned home sooner, and he placed a gentle kiss on Kyle’s forehead. When he drew back, Kyle tenderly brushed away Stan’s tears, and, though his own green eyes were misty, he said, “You needn’t shed tears for me, darling. I’ve made peace with it. I’m all right.”

            “But if you have human blood,” Stan reasoned, “that means…”

            Kyle nodded, and softly said, “I know.”

            “Kyle…”

            “But isn’t it wonderful, Stan?” Kyle asked.

            “How?” Stan demanded. “How is it wonderful? You’re the King! You…”

            Kyle shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “My parents took in their ward as collateral. He’s all Drow Elf, from our cousins in the North. I am the end of my father’s line, Stan. If I have no children, the Kingdom of Larnion will pass to Ike, and a new dynasty will begin. Should we both wish it, I could abdicate the throne at any time once Ike comes of age.”

            “But where does that leave you? Kyle…”

            “With _you,”_ Kyle said, placing his hands on Stan’s strong shoulders. “I am one-quarter human. That is enough to drastically affect some aspects of my life. In exchange for my Sight and my gift for magic, I will age and die alongside humans. Should I continue to reign, it would not be for long, in dynastic terms.”

            “And you… you accept this?” Stan checked. “Could you be happy, being partially human?”

            “I do believe I could be,” said Kyle. He pressed his palms to Stan’s chest, and lowered his head to rest against Stan’s chin. “If I could be with you.” He drew in a deep breath. “And you?” he asked. “Could you be happy, with me?”

            Stan gathered Kyle in his arms and held him close, listening for his breath and the pace of his heart. Stan wondered how he had never given thought to the fact that Kyle’s heart beat in time to his; not the slower, more measured beats of the other Drow Elves, but the impatient, _I’m_ _here,_ of the humans. Gently, Stan combed one hand through Kyle’s beautiful, tangled, firey hair, and gentler still, he drew back and placed a small kiss on Kyle’s lips.

            Yes. Stan wanted to be with Kyle. Forever and always. No matter the obstacle.

            “I will carry your heart,” he promised Kyle, repeating with more conviction the same words he had spoken on the day Kyle had confessed his love, “and I will carry your hands, and I will carry your words. I will keep them safe and warm with me until the end of my days.”

            “And I you, Stan,” Kyle said, returning the promise. “I will carry your heart, and your hands, and your words, and keep them safe and warm with me until the end of my days. I love you so much.”

            Stan drew in a deep breath, and confessed at last, “And I love you.” And for the first time in his life, he knew what it meant to be free. To speak with pure honesty, to love without shame. He kissed Kyle firmly, then professed, “I love you more than the stars love the night sky. I love you more than the morning dew loves the fields. For the stars leave the sky when the sun rises, as the dew leaves the grass. But I, my darling, will never leave you. Never again.”

            Kyle blinked out tears, and held his palms to either side of Stan’s face. “Promise me,” Kyle asked in a whisper.

            “I promise,” Stan vowed. And he made that promise again without words in his next kiss, and the next, and the next. He pressed his face into Kyle’s untameable hair, finding it soft against his cheek, as he said again, “I love you.”

            “Oh, Stan,” Kyle said softly as he exhaled a grateful breath. He pulled Stan close for a warm embrace, and together they held on, protectively. Kyle lowered his head to Stan’s shoulder, and clung tightly to the fabric of the tunic at Stan’s back. Stan lovingly began to pet back Kyle’s hair in return, and rested his head gently on Kyle’s.

            Stan felt a pang of warmth surge around his heart, and he cautiously, in a whisper as if the council could hear, called Kyle, “My love.”

            Kyle let out a small, soft cry of delight; not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but bittersweet and joyful all at once.

            Stan drew in and let out a deep breath, and continued petting back Kyle’s hair. Becoming more confident in his ability to say the words he had so longed to say, Stan blinked out a couple of tears and said again, reassuringly, “My love. I missed you desperately.”

            “And I you,” Kyle told him. “I’m so happy you’re safe, Stan. I’m so happy you’re home. I love you.”

            The two remained sitting and connected for a moment still. Stan held Kyle close, and closed his eyes, and tried to memorize every heartbeat of every moment. Nearly five years had passed since Stan had realized without a doubt that he had fallen in love with Kyle, and now with each passing minute the curtain that had always hung between them began to raise. Little by little, instant by instant, the threads of their lives were being woven ever more closely together.

            And for that, both Stan and Kyle silently, wordlessly thanked the spirits that such things could at long last be so.

            After another moment, Stan shifted so that he was once again kneeling in front of Kyle; he took both of Kyle’s hands in his own, and kissed the backs of them, and then slowly stood and drew Kyle up to standing as well. They fell into a light embrace, arms around one another’s waists, until Kyle raised up his right hand and gently held it against the side of Stan’s face, lightly stroking his thumb against Stan’s skin.

            Stan smiled, and Kyle felt as though his world had grown a bit brighter. “Oh, Stan,” Kyle confessed, quietly, “I wish I could truly have been courting you, all this time.”

            Stan laughed a bit, kindly, and brought Kyle a bit closer. “Now, I distinctly recall,” Stan said, “your admitting that calls and letters were unappealing to you.”

            “Well, for just anyone, to be sure,” Kyle said, so happy and relieved to be laughing a bit as well. “But not you, my love. Not you. For you, I would write until every inkwell in the palace went dry.”

            A soft glow began to surround Kyle as he spoke—it always seemed, Stan had realized, that the glow of Kyle’s aura appeared most prominently in moments when Kyle was truly, completely happy. Which was all Stan could ever ask for, for his dearest friend. For the person he loved more than anything in the world.

            Stan kissed Kyle’s brow gently, and Kyle shifted to rest his arms across Stan’s shoulders. “Do you remember,” Stan asked quietly, “the day you turned sixteen?”

            Kyle laughed. “The _kingdom_ remembers the day I turned sixteen, Stan,” he said.

            “That may be so,” Stan agreed. “But what I never told you, that day or any other, was how desperately I wanted to ask for a dance with you.”

            Kyle gasped a little, and looked Stan in the eyes as he wondered, “Why didn’t you?”

            “Kyle, you know the reasons why,” Stan said. “Status. Expectations. All that goes with it. I would have written a thousand letters to you in the years between then and now if such things could have been.”

            Tears returned to Kyle’s eyes, and he downcast his gaze, trying to keep them away. He let out a long but quiet sigh, and asked, to Stan and to the world, “What do we do now?”

            “I don’t know,” Stan admitted, starting to stroke one hand slowly across Kyle’s back. “I know what we must do tomorrow…”

            “Yes,” Kyle concurred. “Tomorrow is for strategy, for preparations to march once again into battle. But, Stan, what do… what do _we do?”_

            Both took a moment to pause and think of possible solutions, but none readily came. Because, for the first time in their lives, the two were alone to explore an evening moment by moment.

            “What do you _want_ to do?” Stan wondered.

            Kyle stood back a little, and held Stan’s face in his hands, smiled warmly, and said, “I want to be with you.”

            Gathering his hopes and his nerves and his courage, Stan asked, “Will you… Kyle, will you stay with me tonight?”

            “Oh, my darling, I will,” Kyle answered. “I don’t think I could bear it if I lost sight of you again tonight.”

            “Nor could I,” Stan told him. Still feeling elated with the new freedoms the two had found together, Stan gave Kyle another grateful kiss. “Are you tired at all?” Stan wondered. “I know—I know you just now rested, after the battle, but…”

            “It’s all right,” Kyle said. “I do admit I would welcome more sleep.” He paused a moment, then lowered his hands to Stan’s chest and added, “Such is my nature.”

            Stan felt his heart skip, and he drew a short gasp, taking it upon himself to see if he could sense in Kyle any continued air of fatigue. “Oh… oh, no, no, Stan, you needn’t worry,” Kyle assured him, clutching at the front of Stan’s tunic. “I promise you, it’s all right.”

            “It… it really doesn’t upset you?” Stan asked. “Being…?”

            Kyle shook his head, and smiled. “The fact itself, no,” he said. “I’m upset with my council for the way they failed to actually handle my family’s truth. Really, I’m upset with them for many things. And tomorrow and beyond they will be tried,” he continued. “They put this land in danger, and I firmly believe that they all know they must now win trust from me. And I won’t—I won’t ever allow them to come between us, ever again. But Stan, I don’t want to talk about them now. I don’t want to talk about them until morning, and I don’t want the morning to feel any closer than it must be. I want only to celebrate the good that’s come of today.”

            Stan smiled, and brought up one hand to sweep his fingers back once again through Kyle’s tangled hair. “As do I,” he said, before kissing Kyle’s cheek. He then brushed his hands down Kyle’s arms, took Kyle’s hands in his and, letting the evening continue as though the two had found themselves in their own truly private world, he went on, “In such a case, then… shall we make up for lost time?”

            Kyle flushed, and Stan felt himself do the same. “What do you mean?” Kyle asked, just above a whisper.

            Allowing all notions of status to fall, for tonight, to the side, Stan began taking a few steps back toward his bedchamber, and Kyle gratefully followed. When they stood alone in the quiet, moonlit room, Stan clarified to Kyle’s question, “If we were to have had the opportunity to court one another, Kyle, what might we have done?”

            “Goodness, I can’t think,” Kyle admitted with a bit of a laugh. Letting his laughter build somewhat, Kyle, keeping hold of Stan’s hands, took one step back, squared his shoulders, and composed a lighthearted letter aloud: _“My dearest Sir Stanley,”_ he said with over-emphasis, and Stan gave into a small bout of laughter as well. _“My proudest adulation to you regarding the harvest joust.”_ Continuing with his dramatics, Kyle placed a hand over his heart and went on, _“I confess I could not keep my eyes off you. It is of greatest and utmost importance that I congratulate you in person as soon as time allows. I shall be most impatient in the interim, but until then, I do hope that you will accept the favour which I have sent along with this letter. With all my love—Kyle.”_

            The two shared a delighted moment of laughter again, and then Stan took up Kyle’s free hand, kissed his fingers, and composed a letter of his own: _“My most gracious lord, Kyle,”_ Stan began. _“To have received such a favour and praise from you is an extraordinary gift, which I shall cherish with each waking moment. I shall carry it with me into each new victory as proudly as I carry my own sword. I am counting the hours until I can see you again. As I shall ever be—your Stan.”_

The pace of Kyle’s heart quickened, and he moved from their lighthearted fantasy to the true, beautiful reality of the evening; he pulled Stan close for an embrace, and echoed as he exhaled, “My Stan.”

            The two shared a kiss, and another, and stepped still further into the room.

            A thought came to Kyle suddenly, and he gasped and stepped back again, clutching his hands to his own chest as if to stop his heart from bursting completely—this time for embarrassment of having remembered one little detail. Kyle had not quite known what to expect when he chose to meet Stan in his quarters rather than in their usual meeting place of the stables, but Thresher _had_ given him a gift that was meant for Kyle and Stan both, and, flustered, Kyle had pocketed it after donning a new robe for his visit to Stan. And there in his pocket it remained.

            “Are you all right?” Stan asked, understandably concerned.

            “I… yes, but I… Stan, this is terribly embarrassing,” Kyle confessed.

            “The dramatics? I thought that was the point.”

            “Oh, no, no, well… yes, in a sort of a way… but…” Kyle huffed out a short sigh and cautiously withdrew the little corked bottle, still with Thresher’s note attached to the neck, out of the deep pocket of his robe. “I… I promise this isn’t why I came down here, Stan, it’s… oh, this is… well…”

            “Yes?” Stan asked, still confused.

            Utterly flushed, Kyle confessed, “Stan, when I visited the Creek, Thresher sent this back with me. It’s best if you read it, I simply can’t read it aloud.”

            Curious, Stan accepted the little object from Kyle and opened the tied-on note; Kyle watched as Stan’s face slowly tinted red. “Ah, that’s… bold,” Stan commented.

            “The Creek are lovers,” Kyle blurted out, as though that alone could explain the little bottle.

            Stan found himself smiling, and he folded closed the note again and said, “I suppose I should have known.”

            “Mm.”

            Stan studied the little gift for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet Kyle’s. Stan had had to refute Clyde’s supposition that Stan was his King’s lover, and yet such a reality was now so closely within reach. On any day other than this, Stan thought that perhaps he might let societal expectations and the council’s words stop him from allowing anything to progress further. But this night was different.

            Stan thought back to the night that had begun his quest. He thought of how painful it had been to leave Kyle behind, how desperately he had wanted to see Kyle’s happiness return. And return it had. Along with Stan.

            He handed back the bottle to Kyle, who began to slip it again into his robe pocket, then hesitated, untied the note and let it fall to the ground, and held the bottle lightly to his chest instead. The two allowed themselves a moment of silent contemplation, and then Stan took hold of Kyle’s shoulders and kissed him gently. They parted slightly, and then Kyle initiated a soft kiss of his own.

            Stan then stepped back, brushed a hand against Kyle’s cheek, and asked, “Wait for me? I won’t be a moment.” Practically breathless, Kyle nodded.

            Heart pounding, Stan made for the front door, bolted it, and kicked off his boots. He took a deep breath, and quietly thanked the spirits for all that had come of the evening, then turned back around and returned to the bedchamber, finding Kyle in a state of undress. Kyle had removed his green robe, revealing a thin white dressing-gown beneath. Stan’s face flushed, and he closed the chamber door, latched it for good measure, and joined his dearest friend where he stood.

            Kyle dropped the green robe negligently to the floor and looked expectantly at Stan. He gave a soft smile, and Stan took Kyle into his arms, unable to bear the space between them any longer. Kyle wrapped his arms around Stan in return, and he was shaking nervously, but he was warm.

            “Don’t be afraid,” Stan whispered, to assure them both. “I’m here.”

            “I’m not afraid,” Kyle said, pressing his cheek against Stan’s shoulder. “Not anymore.”

            “We don’t have to…” Stan began to offer.

            “We’ve been apart for so long,” Kyle said, and his voice cracked from so many nights of crying his throat raw. “If you wish it, too, I want to be as close to you as we can possibly be, Stan.” He drew in a shaking breath, and Stan stroked a hand across his back. “My Stan,” Kyle said, drowning in his warmth. “My love. I love you. I love you.”

            “And I love you, Kyle,” Stan said. “I love you.”

            Carefully, Stan guided Kyle down to sit alongside him on the bed, and then, gently, with passion guiding him, Stan helped Kyle lay back, kissing him with every second of the motion. Kyle’s warmth rose within Stan and around him, and Kyle touched his fingertips to either side of Stan’s face, keeping them close, sinking into each and every kiss with greater and greater resolve and adoration.

            After a moment, Kyle tugged at Stan’s tunic, and Stan drew back in order to pull the garment off and let it fall aside. Kyle’s eyes danced and his breath caught, and his cheeks tinted red as he touched his hands to Stan’s bare chest, feeling his heartbeat and the quickening pace of his breath.

            “Love me,” Kyle requested, softly, as he stroked his hands down Stan’s sides. “Show me how.”

            “Kyle, I don’t… I don’t know if I can,” Stan admitted. The fear of the truth of his status crept back into his mind, and Stan took a light hold of Kyle’s upper arms. “I want to be with you. I want to be close to you. You know that I do. But you’re the King, and I… Kyle, I…”

            “Tonight, I am not your King,” Kyle said, lifting his eyes to meet Stan’s. “I am more than a friend and less than a lord. I am your lover. I am entirely yours.”

            Stan’s grip tightened slightly. “How can you be…?” he began.

            Kyle combed his fingers back through Stan’s hair, and drew him close so that their noses brushed together. “You have been mine for so long,” Kyle said. “My knight, my bodyguard, my champion. I want to be yours, Stan. Yours, completely.”

            Stan kissed him, lightly at first, and then firmer and with growing resolve again, and again.

            When they parted slightly, Kyle said, as his green eyes caught the moonlight, “Life has had its way with us, Stan. But in love… in love, we are equals. As we shall ever be.”

            Tears of relief, and joy, and love, and longing, and memory fell from Stan’s eyes, painting Kyle’s cheeks. Stan let himself cry, and kissed the man he loved, first in desperation, and then again in a binding promise. More than one dragon had been vanquished that day.

            Kyle brushed the tears from the corners of Stan’s eyes with his thumbs, then thought again and, holding Stan’s face in his hands, kissed the corner of Stan’s left eye, and then his right. “My love,” Kyle said soothingly. “I’m here.”

            And so, it began.

            They shared a deep, lingering kiss, in a promise to keep intact the closely-treasured friendship they had built, while now exploring the love that they had found—the love they both had felt for so long.

            Kyle took up the little bottle of salve, which he had set carefully toward the head of the bed, uncorked it, and handed it to Stan. They kissed again, and Stan smoothed a bit of the salve onto his palms, then gently helped Kyle remove his dressing gown, and traced his right hand slowly up the back of Kyle’s left thigh. Kyle shivered a bit and held Stan’s face close to his, kissing him gently in a fluid rhythm; the touch of the salve on Stan’s palm was cool and invigorating against his skin, and he gladly welcomed the new sensation, welcomed how very close he and Stan had now become.

            Neither had made love before, but they navigated each instant together. Stan was gentle, taking care to ask, whether whispered to the air or silent in his actions—as each breath, each movement, however subtle or sublime, built to the next—if Kyle was happy. And Kyle, in return, in his own way, would respond that he was. He let his fingertips glide lightly over Stan’s skin, over his bare chest, and shoulders, and arms, and twine up into Stan’s hair, holding him close and whispering words of love to him, and him alone.

            It truly was an evening that the two could live moment to moment, embracing what had been and what might possibly, possibly be; enjoying the touch, and the taste, and the pleasure of one another. Kyle’s inner flame gave way to a warmth that kept Stan blissfully at ease as they continued on, each motion, each moment a new and wonderful discovery.

            When all was, for the time, done, the two lay together in the quiet, feeling as though time slowed, to allow that night to last just as long as they both wished.

            They talked for some time, then, neither tired, both overjoyed and overflowing with a sense of possibility, as though the world had become entirely theirs, to weave at their will. When again the conversation turned only to talks of love, Stan lay back and said, “As you have been mine, so shall I be yours.”

            Kyle smiled and bent over him. He brushed back Stan’s bangs and kissed his forehead, and then the lids of his eyes, and then his lips. “Do you wish it?” he asked in a whisper, his lips still touching Stan’s skin.

            Stan felt his chest tighten as Kyle’s hips brushed his. “Oh, yes,” Stan said. “More than anything.”

            Kyle kissed Stan warmly, holding one hand to his heart. “Of course, my love,” Kyle said gently, positioning himself to begin. “Anything for you.” He kissed Stan once again, and then paused for a breath or two to simply look into his eyes. “Stan?” he said.

            “Yes?”

            Kyle’s smile broadened and brightened, and he leaned in again, keeping them close. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

            Stan brushed both of his hands back through Kyle’s hair, kissed him lightly, and said, “You are home to me, Kyle. Wherever you are, I am home.”

            Words escaped Kyle in that moment. Tears fell, and after another kiss, Stan welcomed Kyle into him, and the two connected again, and again.

            Though each had been so deeply in love with the other for some time, both believed, both knew, that without a doubt, that night was just as it was meant to be. It was indeed a celebration of the day that now lay behind them. And it was a promise to hold one another up, with love irrevocably binding their lives together, no matter the obstacles that lay ahead.

– – –

            In the later stillness, when the moon had long since passed to a new position in the sky outside Stan’s window, the two lay barely awake, facing one another on Stan’s bed. Stan was the first to begin to drift to sleep, and Kyle watched him for a moment, so profoundly proud and in awe of the fact that he was looking upon the face of his lover. Such a possibility had only seemed a dream until that very day, but now Kyle was filled with the hope that somehow, perhaps, what they both wanted, more than anything, could very well be within reach.

            Kyle kissed Stan’s forehead lightly, and smiled when Stan responded with a slight hum.

            “Stan?” Kyle said, quietly.

            Stan smiled, and opened his eyes to meet Kyle’s. “Yes, my love?” he asked.

            “This is it,” said Kyle, barely able to keep his own eyes open for want of sleep. He stroked Stan’s cheek with his thumb in soothing, gentle motions, and said, “This is happiness. I never knew…”

            “We have been happy,” Stan offered, placing his hand between Kyle’s shoulderblades, feeling the heat of their passion against his skin. “Sharing so much of our lives, Kyle, we’ve been fortunate.”

            “I know,” Kyle said, nestling closer. “But this, my love… this is beyond words.”

            The two shared a tender kiss goodnight, and held one another in the calming moonlight until sleep came. It was the best rest either had known in weeks, both feeling safer and stronger than ever before. Though the future was uncertain still, Stan and Kyle held tightly to all that they had found together that night, overjoyed and encouraged by the thrill of feeling fully, freely in love.

– – –


	13. XIII. Second Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which preparations are made to rescue Princess Kenny and Princess Karen, as Stan and Kyle both take command of their allied forces while navigating the new parameters of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry for the unexpected hiatus between chapters. Multiple life projects and events popped up and pushed things back quite a bit. Thank you so much for reading and for your patience during that long lull! I will try to make frequent updates on my tumblr should there be other unexpected changes in the posting schedule between now and the end.

            Stan had longed for quite some time to wake in the morning at Kyle’s side, and now the moment, made real, was far more wonderful than Stan had ever imagined. Kyle always projected a certain radiance when bathed in the sun, but Stan had never before seen Kyle at sunrise. Stan watched in love and in awe as Kyle opened his eyes and smiled, and as the first golden rays of sunlight beamed into the room from the east-facing window, a soft glow seemed to surround Kyle, different and more beautiful than the glow of his controlled magic. Pale gold and red light flickered off of Kyle’s bare shoulders, and illuminated his hair in the warmth of the morning.

            Stan let out a breath he had not realized he’d been holding, and began softly stroking one hand through Kyle’s soft red curls. Kyle’s smile spread, and Stan felt himself smile as well. “Good morning, Stan,” Kyle said, gently placing one hand on Stan’s shoulder. His palm was soothingly warm to the touch.

            “Good morning, Kyle,” Stan said in return, still in awe of him. He combed his fingers through Kyle’s hair in another loving stroke, then twisted one of Kyle’s curls around his index finger, watching the light dance off of it as he did. Then, looking again into Kyle’s eyes, Stan said, “My love, you are the sunrise.”

            Kyle gave into a small, quiet laugh of adoration, and he nestled closer, moving his hand to rest against Stan’s cheek. “If I am the sun, my darling,” Kyle said, gently shifting to lean over Stan, “then you are the beautiful earth I must kiss, every moment I am awake.”

            Stan let himself laugh a little as well, and it melted into a hum as Kyle bent in close for a kiss, and then another.

            They remained as they were for as long as they could, basking in the warmth of one another’s intimate company, whispering words of love and reflecting on the evening that had both affirmed their feelings and changed the course of their lives to come.

            When at last they stood and began to dress, Kyle stole a glance at Stan, watching his back tighten and relax as he rolled back his shoulders before donning the shift that he wore under his chain mail and outer tunic. Kyle smiled to himself, and went about pulling back on his dressing-gown and robe. He searched the area close to the bed until he found the little bottle—the contents of which they had made fair use of the night before—and slipped it back into his pocket, grateful for the gift.

            Stan, in turn, dressed slowly, as if to let their time alone last as long as possible, and stole a glance back over his shoulder at Kyle as well. He felt himself beaming with pride, and returned to his task; when finally he fitted on his belt and removed his sword from the wall to sheath it at his side, he paused for a moment, wondering how, or even if, he could hide from the public his love for Kyle, which he had only so recently been able to express.

            “Stan?” Kyle asked, his voice soft.

            “Yes?” Stan turned, finding that Kyle had now fully dressed, and was tying up the cord on his green silk robe. A faint glow still pulsed around him from the first light of the morning.

            “I… I don’t want this to end,” Kyle said. Stan managed a faint tick of a smile, and stepped closer. As soon as Stan stood before him, Kyle set his hands on Stan’s waist, then lifted his eyes to meet Stan’s and, after a moment, moved his right hand to Stan’s chest, placed over his heart. “Kissing you,” Kyle continued, “holding you, loving you, Stan… I never want it to end.”

            Stan wrapped one arm around Kyle’s waist, and brought up his other hand to gently stroke his thumb along the line of Kyle’s jaw. “We’ll find a way, Kyle,” he said. He accentuated the thought with a kiss, and when he drew back, he said, “I promise.”

            Kyle held Stan close for another moment, and then the two reassumed their roles in society as Stan escorted Kyle out into the hall and toward the rest of the palace.

            The knight at the end of the hallway raised up her lance and saluted to Stan as she said, “Good morning, Sir.” Stan nodded, and then the knight, her eyes lighting on Kyle, added a cautious, “And good morning… your highness…?”

            Kyle cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say.

            Stan saved him by saying, “With all that has been going on as of late, the King sought extra protection last night.”

            “Yes,” Kyle added, knowing Stan’s guard was less likely to pry further than his council would have been.

            “Understandably so,” said the knight. “Orders for today, Sir?”

            “Remain vigilant,” Stan said, “and await further orders. I’ll be needing my best for the march westward to save the Princesses.”

            “Yes, Sir.” Before they could leave, she added, “And, Sir?”

            “Yes?” Stan asked.

            “We’re grateful to have you home, Sir.”

            Stan smiled, and said, “I’m glad to be back.”

            After they had gone a fair distance from the knights’ quarters to the main hall, Kyle let out a relieved breath and said, “Thank you, Stan.”

            Stan smiled and said, “Of course.”

            Kyle set a hand gratefully on Stan’s arm, stroked his fingertips gently against Stan’s skin before he drew his hand away, then asked, “Can you stay as close to me as possible today, Stan? It’s… it’s so wonderful to have you home. And I know we’ll be setting out into yet another battle again in a matter of hours, but I… you _are_ my bodyguard, and I…”

            “I’m here, Kyle,” Stan promised. “I’ll be right here, all the day long.”

            Kyle smiled fondly, and the two continued on. When they reached the bottom of the grand stairs leading to the northern wing of the palace, Stan offered Kyle his arm, and Kyle took it gladly, letting Stan escort him back up the stairs to his quarters, where the door guard made no remarks as they both stepped inside.

            It had been quite some time since Stan had visited Kyle’s bedchamber, particularly for longer than a minute or two. He took a moment to glance around at the beautiful carvings in the ceiling and walls; one weight-bearing pillar to the right of the room bore intricate friezes and sigils depicting historic events throughout Kyle’s family line, and tapestries from past eras hung on some of the walls. A portrait of Kyle’s parents hung over a small fire pit far to the left of the room, which had barely ever seen use due to Kyle’s innate gift for flame, and on a wall quite close to Kyle’s large, lavish bed hung the sword Stan had given him after he had chosen a new one to carry for life. Stan smiled at the sight of it—it hung prominently, like a trophy, but was displayed such that it could easily be drawn and put to use, should Kyle require it.

            Kyle followed Stan’s gaze toward it. “I used to practice with it, you know,” Kyle said fondly.

            “Did you, now?”

            “Oh, yes. Perfecting my stances in secret until I realized that I could easily smuggle my own swords up here from the armory.”

            Stan laughed a little, and Kyle kissed his cheek before letting go of Stan’s arm and walking over to the bed.

            Kyle untied his robe, then flushed and took out the bottle of salve from his pocket and tucked it back into its place on the bookshelf near his bed. Still feeling flushed, but full of excitement from the night before, Kyle stood back and glanced at Stan over his shoulder as he removed his robe and said, “Perhaps we’ll be in my bedchamber next time, love.”

            Which got Stan completely red, and he turned away to hide a nervous laugh. Kyle laughed a little as well, and walked over to press a light kiss to the back of Stan’s shoulder before making his way to the other side of the room and behind a dressing-screen.

            A few items had been hung there for his choosing, and as Kyle started to dress in his preferred attire, he said to Stan, “You’ll be with me for the strategy meeting?”

            “Of course I will, Kyle,” Stan assured him. “I’ll send out one of my soldiers to bring in Commander Wendy and the Valkyrie if you like.”

            “Oh, yes, of course!” Kyle said, buttoning his trousers and beginning to put on his boots. “So is it true what you’ve told me?” he wondered. “About Commander Wendy being the keeper of the tavern at which you stayed?”

            “Ah, yes,” Stan answered. “She was quite hospitable, if difficult to read. There were three others, I learned the name of only one, who frequented the place, but it did seem that the Commander was in charge of the establishment.”

            “A Valkyrie running a tavern?”

            “My first thoughts exactly,” Stan said. “It keeps them hidden, so Feldspar says.”

            “What have they to hide?”

            “I’m not quite sure.”

            “Well,” Kyle said, finishing lacing up his boots, “I’ll be sure to ask. I want no more secrets in my council chambers. I’ve had well enough of them.”

            “Understandably so,” Stan agreed.

            Kyle tied on a doublet over his tunic and walked around from the other side of the dressing-screen while securing on his belt at his waist.

            “You don’t have attendants dress you?” Stan asked, out of curiosity.

            “What? Goodness, no,” Kyle said with a bit of a laugh, tying off with practiced ease the wrist of his right tunic sleeve. “Not for years, and, well, only for certain occasions. I have won _some_ battles against my council.”

            “Oh, I know,” Stan said. Grinning, he added, “How long did that one take?”

            “Ugh. About a year, honestly,” Kyle admitted. He paused in his routine, and simply stared across the room at Stan for a moment. The nightmare was, for now, truly over. Stan was home. His three-week absence and the grave truths that the two of them had uncovered had not in any way wounded their friendship. In fact, things were just as they had always been. _Better_ than they had always been. Stan had returned as Kyle’s victorious friend, and they had woken together that morning as lovers.

            “Is everything all right?” Stan asked when Kyle had fallen silent.

            “Yes.” Kyle tied off his other sleeve and crossed the room to Stan, still almost childishly delighted that they now stood at the same height. Kyle lay his hands lightly on Stan’s chest, and smiled, and said, “You’re home, Stan. Of course everything is all right.” When Stan smiled as well, Kyle stood back, outstretched his arms a little, and asked, “Well?”

            “Yes?” Stan asked, hardly above the tone of his breath.

            “How do I look?”

            Stan stepped to Kyle, his dusk blue eyes soft and sincere as he placed his hands gently on Kyle’s waist and answered, “Beautiful.”

            Kyle draped his arms over Stan’s shoulders and gave into a quick, joyful laugh as they shared a kiss. This was not the time for passion, but they indulged themselves in another kiss all the same. They had been apart for far too long, and they wanted to enjoy the quiet and brilliant beauty of love as much as they could before the next battle came.

            When they drew out of the kiss, Kyle lightly brushed his nose against Stan’s, then drew in a quiet breath, looked into his eyes, and told him, “I love you.”

            “And I you, my darling,” Stan said in response. He gave Kyle another soft kiss, then said, “No matter what happens, this day and onward, Kyle, I shall always, always love you.”

            Kyle nodded against him, and echoed, “And I you.”

            They paused a few breaths longer, and then, after Kyle took a moment to put on a robe, Stan again escorted Kyle out. The two took measured steps down the grand staircase and through the main hall. Two of Stan’s guards opened the palace doors, and when they walked out into the courtyard and stood at the top of the palace steps, Commander Wendy and ten of her Valkyrie sisters were lined up in formation among the soldiers of Larnion’s army. The Creek stood to the side, distant from the proper soldiers but clearly once again offering their hands for whatever the day would bring. Standing with the Creek was Clyde, coat and wide-brimmed hat on and hands once again wrapped in bandages, currently occupied stuffing his pipe.

            Kyle gasped and held his free hand to his heart at the sight of his kingdom’s gathered allies—offering their services on this day, marking the moments between the battle against the dragon and the Princess’s paladin and soldiers, and the inevitable battle to come, to fight for the Princesses’ lives and freedom, and the continued safety of the allied kingdoms of Zaron.

            Commander Wendy held aloft her sword and called out to the field, “Hail the victorious King of Larnion and his Captain of the Guard. We are proud to serve you and call you our allies.”

            “Hail to the King of Larnion!” the gathered crowd echoed. With the exception of Clyde and the Creek. The ranger appeared quite out of his element, while the rogues simply looked on knowingly.

            Kyle drew a deep breath, then slowly let go of Stan’s arm to take two steps forward. “Thank you, Commander,” he said to Wendy when the noise simmered. To all the rest gathered, Kyle then continued, “And my thanks again to all of you who stood with me and with my Captain of the Guard in defeating our recent foes. But the full battle is not won yet. Today, we meet to discuss our plan for retrieving the true Princess Kenny and her sister from our enemies to the West once and for all, and with any luck shall begin our march before sundown. I must ask all soldiers to remain on guard and await orders, with the exception of—”

            From the gate, then, a horn was sounded, and Kyle ceased his proclamation in order to look toward the source of the sound.

            Stan signaled for the gathered soldiers to part, and once a path was cleared, a full faction of an army bearing the standard of the southern kingdom could be seen just outside the border of the magical shield Kyle had woven the day before. Just before Stan could order one of his knights to ask after the visitors’ intent, Feldspar rushed forward and addressed the King and the Captain of the Guard.

            “Sir,” he said to Stan first, and then to Kyle, “your highness. We can trust these soldiers.”

            “You know at just a glance?” Kyle asked skeptically. “They’ve clearly come from Princess Kenny’s domain. It’s possible they were loyal to the dragon.”

            Feldspar shook his head. “With due respect, sire,” he said, “you did ask Thresher and myself if we had trustworthy resources.” Grinning, he stepped back and gestured toward the newcomers. “I present to you, those very resources.”

            Kyle brightened. “Yes,” he recalled, “you did mention a cleric…”

            “A cleric?” Stan asked, and he did hope he knew the very one.

            From nearby with Thresher, Clyde tucked away his pipe and pulled his hat down further over his eyes. Yes, Stan knew the cleric, and his presence now was proof that the cleric in turn knew the Creek.

            “Invite them in,” Stan allowed. “If any are possessed of dark magic, the King’s shield will repel them, as it stands.”

            “Yes,” Kyle agreed. “I’d like to meet these soldiers.”

            Stan’s soldiers and Wendy’s Valkyrie stood by without intent to attack unless attacked, and a herald sounded the horn again before the leader of the southern soldiers rode forward on a horse adorned with gilded tack. The man wore the purple robes of a royal cleric of the southern kingdom, and was indeed Token, the man that Stan had met at the dragonslayers’ gathering place. The man to whom Stan did in a sort of a way owe a significant amount of gold if he was going to hold to his earlier promise to pay off Clyde’s debts, unless his word could be forgiven in order for Clyde himself to pay the dues, as the ranger had made it clear was his true intent. Token did not appear to see the ranger, but rode forward until he reached the palace steps and dismounted.

            Upon approaching, the cleric bowed, and spoke when he stood. “Your highness,” he began, “my name is Token, and I am a cleric of the southern kingdom. I come today by way of the Creek in answer to a call for aid.” Lowering his tone, he asked, “Is it true you know of the whereabouts of Princess Karen?”

            “We know where we must search,” Kyle answered. He looked toward Feldspar, and then to Thresher, both of whom nodded. Kyle trusted their judgment, as well as the fact that the man standing at the steps had passed through the barrier at the gate, and said, “You are welcome in Larnion, as are your soldiers.”

            “And I believe,” Stan said, “we have you to thank for your assistance thus far.”

            “Sir?” Token asked. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

            “Is there a patron of your library, your grace,” Stan asked, “who goes by the name of Lady Shelley?”

            “There is. She is one of our finest scholars.”

            Stan smiled, and said, “She is my sister. Documents from your library that were recently in her possession have greatly helped us in our search.” Though he did realize that he most likely would need to pay recompense to the cleric for the damage done to his ledger book.

            Token studied Stan for a moment, then reached into a deep pocket of his robe to withdraw the small ledger he had been carrying with him when the two had met. The cleric looked it over, then looked back up at Stan. “You do bear a resemblance to her,” he said. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

            “We certainly have,” Stan said. “And more on this will be discussed in time, I’m sure.”

            “Yes, indeed,” Token said, though he did glance around, clearly aware, now, that Clyde was most likely also nearby.

            “Commander Wendy,” Kyle then said, “please wait for us in the council chamber, and bring any of your sisters whom you wish to assist in planning our strategy from here on. One of my guards will escort you. Cleric Token, you are welcome to this meeting as well, but I must ask that your soldiers await orders from here.”

            “Of course,” Token agreed.

            “Feldspar,” Kyle continued, “Thresher, I must ask for you to join in this meeting as well. And bring the ranger Clyde with you.”

            Clyde picked his head up, and asked, “You sure you want me in on such an important meeting, your highness?”

            “You have been instrumental in our efforts thus far,” Kyle said. “I believe there is still more that you can offer.”

            Clyde hesitated for a moment, but after Thresher set a hand on his shoulder, the ranger sighed and said, “Very well.”

            Commander Wendy strode forward with her two hand-picked soldiers: Nicole, whom Stan had of course met by name, and the blonde woman who had frequented the tavern along with her. Thresher nudged Clyde forward, and the two joined Feldspar and flanked Token as four of Stan’s guards escorted them into the palace.

            “So… you do know each other?” Clyde asked Token and the Creek as they passed by Kyle and Stan.

            “Of course,” said Token. “Otherwise, you’d be in prison.”

            Clyde paled. “Right,” he said. “Thanks for that.”

            Clyde looked to Stan as if for confirmation that any part of the situation was a good idea, and Stan nodded his assurance. The ranger drew in a deep breath and followed the guards into the palace.

            Stan then ordered two more guards to accompany his King and himself to the prison, down a winding westward path from the palace, still within Kyle’s magical shield. The prison was a tall stone stronghold, a relic of a bygone era, that saw rare use during Kyle’s reign but for the odd bandit. It was full now, with the councilors spread about in various cells to keep them from whispering or plotting.

            Slowly, Kyle walked the halls of the structure with Stan at his side until they neared the first cell. “We haven’t enough time,” Kyle realized, “to question them all thoroughly. I need to know their full intentions, but some of that can wait.”

            “What is most important to you right now?” Stan asked.

            “Well… we do need to find the Princesses, and quickly, before the warlocks can move,” Kyle said. “We cannot continue with this until we know at least some of the reasons why my councilors so easily let the false Princess into Larnion, and we could also use some of their expertise, as much as I hate to admit it. But I need to know that they will help and not hinder.”

            “Haven’t you said,” Stan remembered, “that there have always been a few who have dissented from the majority? Shall we begin with them?”

            “Yes, that would do,” Kyle said. “But I would still like to ask a few questions of those who have not been loyal. We cannot question them all, but we can begin.”

            “Whatever you think best, Kyle.”

            A gasp came from a nearby stall, and Kyle let out a huff of breath. “Right,” he said, clenching his hands into fists. “I suppose I’ll begin with you.”

            Kyle stormed toward the cell and Stan was close beside, and stood dutifully a few steps behind Kyle as the King glared into the small cell at the councilman held within. It was the same man, Kyle realized, who had asked after him on the morning following the revelation of the truth of Kyle’s bloodline.

            “Explain yourself,” Kyle commanded.

            “I… I don’t understand, sire,” said the councilman.

            Kyle let out a short scoff of a laugh. “You’re in _prison!”_ he said, outstretching one arm. “What’s not to understand?! What made you gasp, just now?”

            The man within the cell winced, took a look at Stan, and then looked back at Kyle to answer, “You know that it’s unseemly for any knight to call you by name, your highness, even—”

            “Stan is my friend,” Kyle interrupted. “He has always been my friend. He can call me whatever he likes. Do you understand me? And I trust him far more than I have ever trusted a single one of you. Do you know why? Do you know _why_ I do not trust you?”

            “Sire—”

            “Because you have made it _quite_ clear, from the moment we returned from battle ten years ago, that you do not trust me,” Kyle pressed on. “You have never stopped treating me like a child. You have always hidden vital information from me. I want to know why.”

            “Sire,” the man tried, “is this really the time to—”

            “Are you… are you _honestly_ trying to undermine and belittle me _now?”_ Kyle cut him off. “Look again at where you are. Now answer me. Truthfully. Why did you hide my bloodline from me?”

            The councilman looked at Kyle for a moment, then sighed and sat on the small wooden bench in the cell and said, “We had no instruction from your parents, sire.”

            “And that made it feasible for you to lie to me, then?”

            The councilman didn’t answer.

            Kyle let out a harsh, short sigh. “All right. Let’s begin with this,” he said instead. “Were you aware at all of the Princess’s falsehood? What more beyond her letter of proposal did you know that you never shared with me?”

            The councilman paused only a moment before answering. “After receiving her letter,” he said, “we met with the Princess’s council. We were unaware of any dark magic at play.”

            “You met with her council without either the Princess or myself present?” Kyle asked.

            “We did, sire.”

            “Why?”

            “We wanted to do what was best for you,” the councilman said, and he did seem to be speaking his own truth. “Time was becoming much of the essence, given your parents wishes for you to marry by the age of twenty, and we were only just preparing to send invitations to nobles in the north for you to meet when the Princess’s letter arrived. We knew that you had been good friends in childhood. We thought it a most auspicious sign. And you must agree, sire, that a merging of our kingdoms could be beneficial.”

            Kyle shook his head. “I have to disagree,” he said. “Midlands divide us for a reason. The kingdom would have been much too large, especially given your ill handling of the entire betrothal. Skirmishes if not full civil war would have been inevitable without proper and well-thought delegation between courts, but I doubt you considered that.”

            The councilman again fell silent.

            “Are you so tied to documents,” Kyle asked, “that you truly do not look around at the lives being lived around you? When was the last time you visited one of the villages beyond the edge of the forest?”

            “Sire…”

            _“When?”_ Kyle insisted. When again the councilman did not answer, Kyle said, “Think on it. Think about the kingdom you claim to serve. Think about what is best not for your calendars and ledgers but for our people and our allies.”

            The councilman hung his head, and said, “Yes, your highness. Perhaps we did rush to conclusions.”

            “You certainly did. I hope that you see what your lack of judgment has caused,” Kyle said.

            And again, the councilman’s response was, “Yes, your highness.”

            “And did you _truly_ not see any change to the Princess’s behavior?” Kyle asked. “Or were you always so concerned with other things that you never got to know her as I did in years past?”

            There was no answer this time, leading Kyle to rightfully believe that the council had, on the whole, been simply uninformed and otherwise occupied, and not complicit in trying to seat a dragon on Larnion’s throne. So Kyle said, “I see. Thank you for your time.”

            “Shall we move on, sire?” one of the guards asked.

            “Yes,” Kyle decided. Steeling himself, he added, “But release him.”

            Stan asked, “Are you sure?”

            “No, but this is what must be done,” Kyle said. “I want this man, I want one of the members of the council who has always pushed back against me and doubted me, to see what I am truly capable of. I want him to witness the strength of our new alliances. And then I want him brought back here, to think about whether or not he can trust me to be his King when all is said and done.”

            They continued on, then, and Kyle asked similar questions of five more councilors. Three were released, a man and two women, all of whom gave similar but highly individual accounts of their loyalty to Larnion, to Kyle and the legacy of his parents, and their skepticism of the rushed actions of the council majority. Only one woman, an older councilor whom Kyle had known in childhood as a trusted advisor to his mother, seemed not to balk even slightly at any suggestion Stan made or question he asked. Kyle decided that he trusted her the most.

            Before they could leave the prison stronghold, Stan walked close to Kyle and asked in a hushed tone, “Well?”

            “Yes?”

            “The… the paladin,” Stan said, and Kyle slowed his pace. “Should we question him here and now? What should we do?”

            Kyle’s heart skipped, and he weighed his options as Stan continued. “On the battlefield,” Stan said, “Leopold became completely drained of whatever dark magic had cursed him. When his senses returned, he mentioned needing to warn his Princess. Of what, he did not say.”

            Kyle stopped, prompting Stan to do the same. The paladin could be questioned now, Kyle thought, but it would only be Kyle and Stan hearing his words. If the paladin was to speak his truth, if he was to apologize at all for what he had done and seek amends, he needed to do so in the presence of the court. Leopold had not only wronged the King and his knight, but all of Larnion; all of the paladin’s own kingdom. The cleric from Princess Kenny’s kingdom would need to hear the paladin’s words, as well.

            Kyle shook his head, and he and Stan continued on. “Leopold will confess his transgressions in front of everyone we have gathered to strategize his Princess’s safe return,” Kyle decided. “If he has any information to give us, he will do so when the time comes in the meeting to seek whatever it is he may have to say.”

            “A wise choice,” Stan agreed.

            Which made Kyle smile somewhat, before the two followed the guards back to the palace.

            The councilors were permitted back into the council chamber ahead of Kyle and Stan. Commander Wendy and her two chosen Valkyrie compatriots were seated at the large table with their backs to the far wall, along with Token, while Feldspar, Thresher, and Clyde were seated near representative soldiers from Stan’s army on the side of the table nearer the door. The councilors were shown to four seats on the side with the Valkyrie and the cleric, and all rose and remained standing until Kyle took his place at the head of the table.

            Kyle had not truly led a meeting in that room since he was nine years old, and the army was preparing to go into battle with the Demon King again following the deaths of the former King and Queen. He was nearly twenty now, the date approaching in a matter of weeks, but time had decreed that Kyle must again take charge of his kingdom before his full reign began. At once, he felt much more prepared now to take on this task and lead his gathered armies on a quest to save the Princesses of the trusted ally kingdom to the south, and yet Kyle had grown so much more cautious of the world as he had grown older. But he trusted those that were gathered before him, and wanted to do all that he could to ensure the Princesses’ safety, as well as the continued prosperity for both of their kingdoms.

            “Thank you all again for your presence here today,” Kyle said. “It will be imperative that everyone speak truthfully and intently in this meeting, for the lives of Princess Kenny and Princess Karen are very much at stake, and we have no inside knowledge of the true plot of those who are holding them captive. All of Zaron could be at veritable risk if the Princesses are not found as soon as possible.

            “But before we begin,” Kyle added, “there is something that everyone present must know about me. Something that until very recently I did not know about myself.” He took a steady breath. His councilors looked ready to protest, but refrained, for which Kyle was grateful. “It has been the subject of rumor my entire life, and I now know for myself that it is true. I have human lineage on my mother’s side, and therefore human blood runs in my veins. This is the supposed weakness written about in the Princess’s treaty with the warlocks that Sir Stanley discovered on his recent quest. The false Princess passed this information to me herself only days ago. I’m sure she meant for it to break me, but it was her own mistake.

            “I want all present to be informed of this,” Kyle continued, “so that there are no secrets among us. Should anyone else have truths that could help us in the oncoming march west, speak them now. Unless needed at a later time, they will not leave this room.”

            Silence fell over the council chamber for a moment. Clyde glanced around at the others, then winced, stood, and set his wide-brimmed hat down on the table. “I, er, don’t have much to say,” he said, “and by now everyone here knows who I am and what I was ten years ago.” Kyle’s councilors shifted uncomfortably in the ranger’s presence, but still kept quiet. “So… so that there’s no doubt,” Clyde continued, “in my intentions in all this… here.”

            Clyde withdrew from a notch in his belt the rolled-up parchments from the ledger book that he had summarized for the King the day before.

            “Bring them here,” Kyle asked.

            Clyde nodded stiffly and moved to the head of the table. He held out the parchments to Kyle, but Kyle shook his head. “I’d rather not handle them,” he said. “Clyde, are you able to tell whether or not dark magic still affects these documents? Can they be read without worry, or will they be forced from my barrier the moment they leave your hands?”

            “I’m not entirely sure how my aversion to dark magic works, sire,” Clyde admitted, “but I’ve found over the years that anything I hold in my bare hands is rendered null. I read the parchments through again last night to search for any further affectations and found none. They should be safe to handle by anyone, your highness, even within the barrier.”

            “I believe you,” Kyle said. “Even so, lay them out for me.”

            “Yes, sire,” Clyde said, and from the strain in his voice it was clear that uttering such a phrase was incredibly foreign to him, and yet he was making a concerted effort to make his new allegiance come more naturally.

            Clyde rolled out the two scrolls on the table, and returned to his seat when Kyle dismissed him. Kyle scrutinized the two documents, and as he did, he asked, “Anyone else? Truths to reveal? Anything that can bring more light to what we know from these documents?”

            Commander Wendy and the Valkyrie seated to her left and right, Nichole and the blonde woman that Clyde had often shown interest in, stood. “Your highness,” said Wendy, “my sisters and I owe our allegiance to you in this battle in more ways than one.”

            “This truth is mine to tell, Commander,” said the blonde Valkyrie, “if I may.”

            Wendy nodded.

            “My name is Bebe, sire,” said the blonde Valkyrie to Kyle, “and in the many years I have served my Commander, I have proudly taken on the task of training young women in our ways of the sword and bow. My most recent charge…” She stalled, looking around the table, then bowed her head and said with remorse, “My most recent charge was Her Highness, Princess Karen.”

            There were gasps from nearly all others present, the Valkyrie excluded.

            “She never returned from a mission in the western Midlands,” Bebe went on. “I took it upon myself to find her, and recruited my sisters for help. I dared not go back to the Princess’s parents or her sister with such news, and when word came of Princess Karen’s capture by the warlocks, we went out in waves to search for her still. We could not bring shame to both the Valkyrie and to the largest kingdom in all of Zaron by making it known that she had been taken while under our care. We thought that we could find her on our own, but now that Princess Kenny has been captured as well, it seems that an alliance between the Valkyrie and Larnion is the best chance all of us have against the warlocks.”

            Kyle’s head was spinning, and he looked from the Valkyrie down to the parchments laid out in front of him. The King and Queen of the southern kingdom were still abroad and had been for some time, and with Princess Kenny overseeing matters in their stead, it was obvious that she would have done anything to save her sister from an uncertain fate with the warlocks.

            It had been the Wizard King who had orchestrated the battle for the Stick of Truth, who had ultimately been the cause of Clyde’s possession, and it was clear that the same man, banished though he had been, was once again pulling the strings. There was no one else in all of Zaron so underhanded, so manipulative, and so knowledgeable about his enemies’ weaknesses.

            Princess Kenny wore her weakness on her sleeve. She loved her sister more than anything. More even, it seemed, than the fate of her own country.

            “So, that’s it, then,” Kyle said. “Thank you for your honesty, Bebe. This is incredibly useful information, and I am proud to call the Valkyrie my allies in this endeavor.” Bebe nodded, and the three Valkyrie again were seated.

            “My understanding, now,” Kyle continued, “is that this plot has been a long time in the making, and I believe that to avoid such tragedies in the future, we will need, after all of this is done, to draft a pact between all three righteous kingdoms of Zaron and the Valkyrie.”

            The Valkyrie Nichole offered, “It would be my honor to assist you in drafting such a treaty, sire. The Midlands must remain unincorporated, but unincorporated should not mean vulnerable.”

            “I agree,” Kyle said. “Thank you. As for this,” he continued, glancing again at the parchments, “it is obvious that the warlocks took advantage of both Princess Kenny’s bond with her sister, and of my already incredibly stubborn council,” and here he paused to shoot a glare at his four present councilors, who bowed their heads, “and plotted a slow and almost unassuming attack.”

            “Sire,” a councilman said, “forgive us. We—”

            “Being glamoured I can forgive,” Kyle said, waving a hand up to silence the man. “But you cannot deny that you rather put yourselves in that position.”

            The councilman looked ready to say more, but stopped himself, for which Kyle was grateful.

“Was there anything,” Stan asked Kyle, “in the Princess’s original proposal letter that might give us a hint as to where she could be, or whether she tried to warn you?”

            “I saw the letter only once,” Kyle said, “no thanks to the council, so a new reading of it could definitely prove vital.”

            He rose, and began walking to the shelves of drawers lining the eastern wall. All four of his councilors stood abruptly before he’d walked ten steps, and one protested, “My lord, allow one of us to—”

            “Sit down,” Kyle ordered, giving the one who had spoken a sharp glare. When the councilors were seated, Kyle began walking back toward the wall, then paused and turned to face them, his hands clenching into fists. “I think I understand now,” he said in a measured tone. “I think I know why you have always insisted that you do my work for me, why you chose for me the activities and lessons that you did. I may have human blood, but I am not weak,” he said, causing the councilors to sit back in both shock and regret. “I am not helpless,” Kyle continued. “I was ill not a full year before my parents died. I can understand that perhaps at first you thought you were protecting me. But I do not need protection. I need truth.”

            Kyle lifted his chin, and went on, stronger still: “You taught me how to be noble, but never once did you prepare me to accept losses and consequences. Never once did you listen to me when I professed an interest in a single thing that did not fit your precious regulations. I am not helpless. I am not your pupil. I am your _King,_ and I will do and say and ask and doubt whatever is necessary if it will make me a better ruler for my kingdom. Never once did you consider them, did you? Only yourselves, and a few words on parchment. Your job is to _advise_ me, and it is my every right as your King to refuse or challenge you. If you cannot do that, then you will be forcefully dismissed. Do I make myself clear?”

            All four of the councilors answered, “Yes, sire.” Kyle glared at them for another moment, then walked to the wall and pulled out two drawers before finding what he was looking for.

            He strode back to the table and laid out Princess Kenny’s letter of proposal beside the documents that had damned her. Her signature was indeed the same on both of the scrolls on which it appeared, and the rest of the script did indeed appear to be her own.

            _My dear friend,_ the letter began. And, truly, Kenny had been a friend. _Dear,_ however, Kyle thought, was already a bit presumptuous, as Kenny was well aware of Kyle’s unease at her previous trades with the warlocks.

            _I do hope that you do not mind my addressing you as such,_ the Princess’s letter continued. _We have known one another for many years, and it is with this letter that I confess how much I have missed you since last my sister and I visited Larnion. Indeed, even as my parents are overseas on an important voyage, my thoughts have turned to you, and to the future of our kingdoms._

_My time will come to rule these southern lands, and you of course by now are well acquainted with the throne. It is with my deepest wish for our friendship to grow and our kingdoms to unite that I write today to ask if you will entertain the notion of becoming my husband._

_Think on this proposal, won’t you, my lord? I truly believe our union is what is best for all the land, both yours and mine. I eagerly await the opportunity to discuss such terms with you, and do wish so greatly to see you again with haste._

_Singularly,_

_Princess Kenny_

            “Singularly?” Kyle read aloud. “Why would she close her letter in such a way unless she was being watched with every quill stroke?” Kyle glowered at his councilors. “None of you thought of this?!” he erupted. And then, “Don’t answer that. I know you didn’t. I know your focus was on marrying me off. We’ve no time to discuss all of it.

            “What disturbs me about this,” Kyle continued, standing back and folding his arms as he looked over all three documents, “is that despite the letter being written in Kenny’s hand, these are clearly not her words. Nothing that transpired between us during any of our visits to one another’s homes sparked any more than conversation about bowmanship and seasonal differences. Additionally, she mentions her sister. Clearly, she meant to meet with me, but was not in a position to ask for help.”

            No one argued Kyle’s points, though he did worry himself that he might be projecting his own interpretation onto the Princess’s words. The possibility was still very real that the Princess meant every word, and she had simply never told Kyle about her feelings. Still, Kyle’s doubts won out. He would rescue his friend, not his betrothed.

            Kyle took one more look over the parchments, sighed, then glanced at Stan before lifting his head to address all present. “There is only so much we gathered few can extract from this,” he said, “and I do not wish to waste any valuable time before coming to a plan of action. We must speak with someone who better knows the source. Cleric Token?”

            “Yes, sire?” the cleric asked.

            “Were you present when the Princess wrote or dictated this letter?”

            “I confess I was not, your highness,” Token answered. “My affairs are primarily linked to the library, to the gathering of documents after the fact. This was not one that I or any of my fellow scribes copied for the records.”

            “Were you at least aware that it had been written?” Kyle wondered.

            “I was not,” said Token. “The Princess has been known to make erratic moves, but all matters of the state should be reported to me. This, however, was not. News of the proposal came to me much later.”

            “That alone is disturbing,” Kyle said. “Thank you for telling me what you do know. But I believe that now, in order to now dig further, we… we must attempt to talk to the paladin.”

            There were a few gasps in the room, but mostly silence.

            Stan spoke first, to break it. “Shall I send for him, my lord?” he asked Kyle.

            Kyle stared down again at the Princess’s letter, then pushed it aside, and nodded solemnly. “Please do,” he asked. Stan turned, and signaled to two of the guards, who saluted and left the council chamber. Stan and Kyle exchanged another glance when the order was done, and Kyle gave Stan a soft, nearly hidden smile in thanks.

            Kyle then turned his attention to Clyde, who still looked, quite understandably, out of his element, eyes darting around the room like a rabbit in a court of foxes. “Clyde,” Kyle said. Clyde winced somewhat, and turned to look at the King.

            “Yes, sire?” the ranger asked.

            “Do you still have the paladin’s Hammer of Storms on your person?”

            “Yes, sire.”

            “Good. Inform me if you should sense it react to Leopold’s presence when he is here,” Kyle ordered. “And please be prepared to fight again, should he still prove a threat. This goes for all of you.”

            There were echoes around the table of acknowledgement of the command, and conversation turned to murmurs and thoughts until the prisoner was brought in. Stan rose from his seat and stood at Kyle’s side to study the three documents for himself while time allowed, but even he could not think on strategy or battle formations until Leopold could be questioned.

            Silence fell over the room as the doors opened, revealing the paladin, hands bound at the wrists in front of him and arms held by one of Stan’s prison guards and one of Wendy’s Valkyrie. Leopold was made to move forward as the doors again were closed; his head was bowed, golden hair tied at the back of his head, and bandages wrapped about the left side of his face to cover his damaged eye and keep the wound sealed. He walked unevenly, given the wounds on his knee and ribs, and wore the simple prison uniform of an un-dyed tunic and trousers, fully stripped of his damaged paladin finery.

            Stan gave Leopold’s handlers a nod, and they prompted the paladin to lower himself to his knees. Leopold did so without objection, though he did wince from the discomfort of his wounds. Once on the ground, Leopold cowed himself even further, his head bent practically to his knees as he closed in on himself in shame.

            The room remained quiet. Leopold’s breath was uneven, as though he wished to say something, but was refusing to speak until spoken to.

            Kyle and Stan glanced at one another, and it was silently agreed that the King himself should be the first to speak to the paladin. Kyle stepped forward, and Stan was prepared behind him to draw his sword in an instant should anything go awry.

            “Leopold,” Kyle began, firmly.

            The paladin winced and drew a deep breath.

            “Say something,” Kyle demanded.

            Leopold sat back somewhat, but kept his head bowed. His hands were shaking. “What would you have me say, your highness?” he asked, guilt trembling in his tone.

            “Anything that can be verified as truth,” Kyle prompted.

            “The truth, sire?” said Leopold, his voice devoid of all the anger and darkness it had held for so long. His breathing was staggered for a moment, until he gathered himself enough to say, “The truth is that you have been woefully wronged. The truth is that my Princesses are in danger.” He carefully lifted his head, and his one good eye was misty, and his face was pale. “The truth, your highness, is that _all_ of Zaron could be in very grave danger, and a great deal of the fault is my own, for thinking that I could pass to and from the West with a message unharmed.” Leopold hung his head again. “The truth,” he continued, “is that I tried to handle the situation, and I failed. I _failed._ I failed my Princess, and my kingdom, just as I have failed you and yours. I can offer you nothing now but an explanation of what it was I tried to do, and an apology for what I did instead. Though I know, sire, that that could never be enough.”

            When it became clear that Leopold no longer posed a threat, Stan and Kyle exchanged another brief glance, and then Kyle nodded to Stan, who cleared his throat and said, sternly, “Leopold.”

            Leopold winced somewhat, and did not lift his head. “Sir Stanley,” he said in return. “I owe you my deepest apologies, as well.”

            “Were you cognizant of everything you did these past weeks?” Stan had to know. “Everything you said?”

            “Yes, Sir,” Leopold admitted. “As is the way with such magic,” he added. “I had no doubt at the time that the actions I performed were right.”

            Stan clenched his hands into fists to keep himself from seething. “You threatened the life of my King,” he reminded Leopold.

            “I did, Sir,” Leopold said in a wavering tone.

            “And that was not your own intention?”

            “On my life, Sir, I swear to you it wasn’t.”

            Kyle cut in to add, “You also threatened Sir Stanley, the highest ranking knight in all of Larnion. As Captain of the Guard in the palace of your host, that by all rights makes him your superior officer, and you drove him out of his own kingdom.”

            “I know, your highness,” said Leopold. “I am terribly ashamed of all that I have done, and any terrors I have caused you. I know that there is no undoing what I did. I am in no position to ask either of you for forgiveness,” he went on, “but all that I ask is that you heed my words today as the truth, or may the gods and spirits strike me down.”

            Such a bold proclamation did give both Kyle and Stan pause. They waited for Leopold to say more, but the paladin did not. Stan looked to Kyle, and the two reached a silent agreement that Leopold could now be believed. Even so, Stan then fixed his Sight on the man kneeling before them. The paladin’s aura was frayed, still, but repairing.

            “You said you needed to find and warn your Princess of something,” Stan recalled from the battlefield. “Warn her of what?”

            Leopold shook his head stiffly. “It’s far too late for that, Sir,” he said.

            “The action itself, perhaps,” Stan said. “But knowing your true intentions may be of great benefit in locating and saving your Princess.”

            Leopold took pause before saying, “I meant to warn her of the Wizard King’s return, and of his refusal to yield to my lady’s requests. He… he saw to it that not only would I neglect to warn her, I would be the bearer of the very thing that took her from our kingdom.”

            “It appeared as though your hammer had become enchanted with dark magic,” Kyle said. “Is that correct?”

            “Yes, sire,” said Leopold. “The King of the West laid curses on it that I carried back with me to my kingdom. Curses that blinded me to my own senses and bound me to the dragon that replaced my Princess.”

            At this point, tears fell. Leopold looked up again, and asked simply of the King and his knight, “Please save her. Please.”

            “You have our word,” Kyle said, “that we will. Now, I must ask you—do you know where Princess Karen is?”

            “I confess that I don’t, sire,” Leopold said in anguish. “I rode west with my lady’s offers in exchange for her sister’s safe return. I was told that I would meet with delegates,” he went on, “not the Wizard King himself. It was at an outpost, far to the southwest, nowhere near most of the occupied western kingdom. He took me aside, and…” and here Leopold yet again hung his head in shame, and closed his good eye shut, “and he presented me with his counter-offer.

            “The outpost was dark, sire, it is impossible to recall when he slipped the enchantment into my weapon. He is cunning, all know this. He is deceitful. He thinks himself above all laws, even the fixed laws of… of physical space, of time itself. He is a monster,” Leopold continued, stronger now, “and he has my Princesses. There is no telling what he might do.”

            Kyle regarded the paladin and his words for a moment, knowing the very real possibility that a difficult battle lay ahead. “Thank you, Leopold,” Kyle said. “This has indeed been immeasurably helpful. We need to discuss strategy at this time. If there is anything else beneficial that you can recall, say it now, or tell your guards before our war party departs.”

            “I have told you all that I know, on my honor, or what little of it I still have,” Leopold assured him. “I only wish that I could assist you in my Princesses’ rescue, but I’m afraid I would only hold the entire war party back.”

            “Your honesty is appreciated,” Kyle said, “and while it is out of my purview, I would venture to assume that your Princess may yet offer you the chance to reclaim your former honor as a paladin when all is said and done.”

Leopold bowed best he could once more, and said another desperate, “Thank you, sire,” before Stan’s guards helped him to his feet. Before he could be drawn back, he lifted his head one last time, looked first at Kyle and then straight at Stan, and quietly uttered the words, “I’m sorry.” The guards then turned the paladin to the door and took him away to again be detained until his formal release.

            No sooner had he gone than the first councilman Kyle had released from the prison stronghold spoke. “Sire,” he said in horror, “is this true? The Princess’s paladin threatened your life?”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, “and the life of my Captain of the Guard, which you should have heard in the paladin’s own words just now.” The councilman paled. “Had you listened to me once these past few weeks, perhaps elements of yesterday’s battle could have been avoided or at very least anticipated, but as you did not, here we are. If the paladin’s hammer was cursed by the Wizard King himself, then I can indeed forgive some of your words as of late due to the glamour that seemed to affect you all in his presence. However, I trust that the paladin’s words today were his own, and I will press no particular charges against him until the Princess has been safely returned, as he is her soldier.”

            “But to have threatened your _life,_ your highness—”

            “I do not wish for his death, if that is what you are suggesting,” Kyle said harshly. “We wait to judge him until we have rescued Princess Kenny.”

            Despite looking as though he still wanted to protest, the councilman agreed, “Of course, sire. The Princess should have a say in her paladin’s fate.”

            “Thank you. Now,” Kyle said, specifically to the Valkyrie, “have you any leads into the possible whereabouts of Princess Karen? It’s likely that Princess Kenny will be held in the same place.”

            “At the very least,” said Bebe, “we know where she is not.”

“Leaving,” Wendy added, “one warlock stronghold un-searched.”

            “On my latest mission,” said Nichole, “I came as close as I dared go, and overheard that the stronghold, the Keep, was once the domain of the Wizard King. You don’t suppose…”

            “Oh, no,” Kyle said, “I do. That Keep is sure to be the place.”

            “But the Wizard was banished!”

            “Warlocks are never known to abide by the laws of Zaron,” Stan said. “We cannot rule out his influence in this at all. Commander Wendy, can you lead us to the Keep?”

            “Once within western borders, yes,” said Wendy. “But as for the safest route through the Midlands with such a large party, I cannot say which is our best option.”

            Silence fell over the room as all present contemplated their options, and then, rather quietly, Clyde offered, “I can.”

            “Clyde?” Stan asked.

            Clyde took a deep breath, looked over at Stan, then at Kyle, and then bowed his head and unraveled the bandages on his hands. “These markings were cast,” Clyde said, displaying the tattoos on his palms, “by a young witch who lives just outside the western border. I did some work for her and her coven as a child, and she promised me safe passage back into and out of the West whenever I required it. I assume that means anyone I bring with me as well.

            “And I know,” Clyde continued, with some difficulty, “that I said I would never return to that place, but I’m starting to think that I must.” To Kyle, he added, “I did as you said all those years ago, your highness. I ran. But I never stopped running. I have much to atone for, and if that means I follow you and your army westward, then so be it. I can’t keep running. Not anymore.” He paused a moment, then managed to add, “I owe you my very existence, sire.”

            “Clyde,” Kyle said.

            Clyde glanced up, but was barely able to look the King in the eye. “Yes, your highness?” he asked.

            Kyle steadied his breath. “Your intentions thus far have seemed clear and honest,” he said. “I want to thank you for aiding my Captain of the Guard in his quest. It is, in part, thanks to you that the dragon has been defeated, and the paladin’s terror has ended. I wish to thank you as well for what you have just told us. This witch you speak of may be our best point of entry into the Western Kingdom.

            “But before we move on, I do want an answer that you never gave me, ten years ago,” Kyle said. “Why did you accept the Stick when you were a child? Why did you want that power? What was so enticing about it that you turned your back on absolutely everything?”

            “Sire—”

            “Telling me your truth will not only further convince me of your found honor,” Kyle pressed on, “but it could also help all of us understand what may have happened to the Princess.”

            Clyde nodded stiffly, and looked down at his hands, where they rested folded on the table. “I came from a family of little significance,” Clyde said. “We lived within our means in the western Midlands, but sometimes I would sneak out and steal things to keep food on the table. Just a little, here and there. One day, I was caught, and my mother happened to be nearby. She came to my defense, and the men who had cornered me struck her down. Losing her was my fault. It was all my fault, and I was angry, and I became desperate. I don’t know what I really wanted. Revenge, I suppose. It was no excuse, but I had very much put myself into a weak enough position for the Wizard King to find me, and tempt me. And for me to accept.” He lifted his head, looked back toward Kyle again, and said, “There is no excusing what I did. I’m so sorry for the loss and grief I caused, your highness. But I wish to atone however I can.”

            Kyle bowed his head, and thought on Clyde’s words for a moment. Even as a child, Kyle had insisted upon removing the boy who had become the evil entity’s power from the Demon King himself. Kyle had spent nights upon nights after the final battle convincing himself that he had been correct to spare Clyde’s life, talking with Stan about his fears that perhaps he had not done the right thing.

            But sparing Clyde that day had again brought him into Kyle’s life, into his kingdom in fact, and in a much more positive and profound way than Kyle could have anticipated. Yes, Kyle missed his parents still as each year wore on, and yes, he felt torn and angry still about the damage the battle against the Demon King had caused Larnion and its people. War was no easy matter, but Kyle decided that, for the sake of diplomacy, for the sake of second chances to those who had proven themselves, and for the hope of any continued peace throughout the allied nations of Zaron, Clyde was needed in this fight, and should be trusted.

            Lifting his head again, Kyle said to the ranger, “Thank you. Your actions may have wronged me and my kingdom in the past, but you are a welcome ally to our current endeavors. I appreciate your honesty and bravery, Clyde.”

            Clyde managed a nod. “Thank you,” he said, “your highness.”

            Kyle gave him a formal nod in response. He glanced over at Stan, who smiled, supportive of both Kyle’s acceptance and Clyde’s intentions. Kyle trusted Stan’s judgment completely, and felt a wave of gratitude wash over him once again for the sheer knowledge that Stan again was home.

            “One more thing…” Clyde said.

            “Yes?” asked Kyle.

            Clyde looked down at his own hands, then turned them palms down to hide the markings. Steadying himself, he revealed, “I did work for the witch as payment for a future favor. But I paid for the tattoos with years from my life.”

            Kyle could not suppress a gasp. “What?” he asked, becoming more trusting of his former adversary by the second with such personal revelations.

            “One for each of them,” Clyde said. “It wasn’t much, and it could have been a lot worse. I had nothing but my life to pay with at the time.”

            “Why are you telling us this?” Kyle asked.

            “Because, your highness,” Clyde said, “if she demands more payment for our passage and if that’s what she asks of me again, I don’t want anyone to stop me.”

            “Clyde, no,” Stan interjected. “I understand that you want to atone for everything you’ve done in the past, but that’s too far. We’ll find another way through.”

            “I agree,” Kyle said. “I can’t ask that of you.”

            “It wouldn’t be an order, sire, I’m offering,” Clyde insisted.

            “Under my watch,” said Kyle. “Self-sacrifice is one thing, but using your own life as payment to a witch is wholly another. There must be something else we can bring with us to offer her. We’ve no shortage of resources. Thank you for the warning, Clyde, but as long as you serve Larnion, I will not be responsible for your death.”

            “It wouldn’t be my death, sire, it—”

            “Yes, it would,” Kyle interrupted, standing. “It would bring you that much closer to it, which is the same thing. Every year of a human’s life is precious, and I will not stand here and let someone trade his away, do you understand?” Tears burned in his eyes as he said the words, and he bowed his head to take breaths to try to calm himself.

            “Kyle…” Stan said gently.

            Kyle nodded, to let Stan know that he was all right. “Wendy,” Kyle issued an order, “Clyde, work with Feldspar and Thresher to work out a different solution for getting us through the Midlands and past the witch.” He raised his head. “Bebe, Nichole, Token,” he continued, “meet with my army. Discuss your formations and report back to Sir Stanley when you are ready to receive further orders. Stan…”

            “Yes?” Stan asked.

            “Will you stay with me?” Kyle asked, refusing to give Stan an order.

            “Of course,” was Stan’s answer.

            Kyle drew in and let out a deep breath, then steeled himself and turned to look in the direction of his councilors.

            “Are… we dismissed, sire?” one of them asked.

            “Not yet,” Kyle said. “Please help those who are strategizing our moves should they need any access to any of our maps or star charts.”

            “As you wish, your highness.”

            “Wait,” Kyle said. His councilors remained seated, and each cast him a cautious glance. Kyle drew in a deep breath. “Before we adjourn,” he said, “I want to know what you know. I have every right to know the truth. Tell me about my family.”

            The three councilors exchanged a look among themselves, and then one tried, “My lord, you’ve given the order to march into battle. Perhaps after—”

            “No,” Kyle interrupted. “This knowledge has made me restless, and if you do not tell me even the most basic information right now, I will take investigations into my own hands. And I will dismiss you from your positions the moment I turn twenty. Do you understand?”

            His councilors hesitated for only another moment, until one relented—the woman Kyle trusted above the others. She rose and took a key from her belt, crossed to the archives on the far wall, and opened a locked drawer which, to Kyle’s knowledge, had been theretofore unopened. Kyle’s heart pounded as the older elven woman drew out a thick tome, closed the drawer, and brought the book back to the table. She brushed away dust from its woven binding, then set it down in front of her King.

            Kyle recognized the ancient sigils of his father’s family line on the binding immediately. He set his right hand reverently on the book, sensing its own inherent energy as he did, and then carefully opened back the front cover.

            “This is your dynastic history, my lord,” the councilwoman said. “From the first King and Queen of your line to your parents and to you. Keep and read it at your leisure, sire. I am sorry that your mother’s line was kept from you, but there were no writings from your parents expressing how to go about revealing such truths. We wanted to give you the royal elven upbringing you deserved, and since your parents had expressed their wishes for your marriage, we assumed that it was only after such an occasion that you have access to knowledge like this.”

            Kyle drew a steady breath. “Thank you,” he said. He looked round at his councilors, and asked, “But I must know… are you… are you _at all_ aware of just how much of a mess you’ve made in all of this? In lying to me for what you called my protection? In calling your refusals of my requests _advising?_ Are you aware of how much of this pain could have been avoided, had you followed your senses and not the written word?”

            “My lord, our duty is _to_ the written word—” said one.

            “Your duty is to _me,”_ Kyle interrupted, standing but managing to keep his inner flame under control. “Your duty is to _this kingdom._ You, just like the written laws of the land, are here for guidance, which would be better served with flexibility rather than rigidity. Please tell me you understand that. Yes, the laws exist to keep our citizens safe, but I need to know that when I fully rise to my station, you will be able to look beyond the laws if they are not working. Every change that has taken place under my probationary rule thus far has been done with your reluctance. I do not wish to fight with my council. I wish to have conversations. To be open. To have trust. Please tell me I can expect that of you in the future, and that you will not—that you _absolutely will not_ view my marginally human lineage as weakness.”

            His councilors took pause. They looked among one another, and then, together, gave a slight but formal bow to the King. When they stood back, one man spoke. “We have wronged you, sire,” he said. “For that, we may not deserve forgiveness, but we do ask for the chance to try to serve you in the time to come. Your unique lineage posed something of a challenge to us to comprehend following your mother’s passing, but you are correct in that we should have been more understanding. And it will certainly not affect our loyalty to you nor serve as a mark against your abilities as you rise to the era of your full reign.”

            Kyle sighed. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Now, if you will excuse me.”

            Very carefully, Kyle picked up the book he had been given. He welcomed the weight of it in his arms and held it steady against his chest, admiring its gilded pages and feeling his heart race with anticipation for discovering what was written and illuminated within. To all gathered, Kyle said, “We will adjourn to our requisite duties for now. Please reconvene here following the midday meal. If it is at all possible, I wish to gather our war party and set out before evening.”

            All rose, acknowledged Kyle, and went to their assignments. Kyle’s eyes were fixed again on the book when Stan appeared at his side and carefully set a hand on his arm. Kyle gasped a little and glanced up to meet Stan’s gaze, and Stan’s presence calmed him, allowing him to smile.

            “Hello,” Kyle said in a whisper.

            “Hello,” Stan echoed, a bit of a grin appearing on his face. “That meeting was marvelously handled.”

            “Do you think so?” Kyle asked.

            “You are a fine leader, my… lord,” Stan corrected himself at the last second, nearly causing Kyle to laugh. “If any among those gathered had any doubt, I’m sure it is now gone.”

            “Oh, thank you,” Kyle said on an exhalation of breath. Much had transpired, and Kyle’s past relationship with his council had instilled in him a worry that perhaps his own true form of leadership might be seen as off-putting by others, but as he cast a glance back at the table, he saw that Stan was right. All were respectfully and diligently working toward their assigned duties and goals, and Kyle could feel his heart lift, knowing the support he now had.

            “As the others prepare,” Stan asked, “what is it that you would like to do?”

            “Well… I doubt I can focus on much but this,” Kyle said, setting one hand protectively atop the book while keeping it cradled in the other arm. “I’d like to find some privacy in which to read for now. Come with me?”

            “Of course,” Stan agreed. “I’m sure we can find a quiet table in the library.”

            As they left, someone stepped up behind Kyle and said, “Your highness?”

            “Yes?” Kyle turned to find the councilwoman who had given him the tome standing there with a scroll in her hands. “What’s this?” he wondered.

            “Something that, given all else, I believe is also rightfully yours to see, sire,” the councilwoman said. “I served your parents for many years, my lord, and had the honor of advising your mother besides. She was a remarkably honest woman, and she confided her truth in me. It has been difficult to see you struggle so, your highness, but you must understand how hard it is for one voice to be raised against such a majority.”

            Kyle wanted to complain, but he remained diplomatic. “I appreciate your honesty now,” he said. “And you do indeed have every right to speak up against injustice when you see it. I know it can be difficult, but I believe that to be the very role of a good council.”

            “Yes, sire, thank you,” the woman said. She offered up the scroll and continued, “This is by every right yours, your highness.”

            “Birth records?” Kyle guessed, accepting the scroll.

            “Not quite,” said the councilwoman. She glanced cautiously at Stan, but then shook her head, faced her King, and continued. “When you were six years old, sire, your parents brought you north with them, as you may recall.”

            “I do.”

            “It was unknown then,” said the councilwoman, “whether or not your mother’s human blood had passed to you, or would affect you as it did her. The northern court employed at the time an incredibly powerful soothsayer who would know at a glance. This is the report that he presented to your parents. This is what you can expect, sire.”

            Kyle felt his heart skip.

            “It was the will of the council majority that it not be yours until you were twenty,” the councilwoman finished. “I truly am sorry for the pain we have caused you, my lord.”

            Kyle stared at the scroll, then managed a smile for the woman. “It has not so much been pain these past ten years,” he said, “as aggravation. Knowing that we can speak more openly from here on is a good start. Was there anything else holding you back?”

            “No, sire,” said the councilwoman. “Mostly just the lack of formal instruction as to what to do.”

            “I see. Well,” Kyle said. “Let’s remedy that in the time to come.”

            “Of course, sire.”

– – –

            Kyle carried the tome and the scroll with him to the library without a word, his heart pounding. He took hold of Stan’s arm as they sought out a reading table, and he set the parchment and then the book down in the dark, placing both hands on the woven cover, glad to know that his past would not remain secret much longer.

            The two sat down at the table together, and Kyle lit a few candles so they would have some light. He then drew back the cover and carefully turned the book’s pages, his eyes only momentarily scanning the painted faces and written deeds of his ancestors. Until he opened the book to a portrait of his mother. She looked younger than Kyle remembered her, and the year marked on the facing page noted that it had indeed been done before Kyle was born.

            Kyle reached out and took Stan’s hand, clasping it gently.

            “Are you all right, Kyle?” Stan asked. And then, “Are you ready?”

            Drawing a cautious breath, Kyle nodded. He looked right at Stan, and smiled, and said, “I’m so glad you’re here with me right now, Stan. Thank you.”

            “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Kyle,” Stan assured him.

            Kyle smiled, gratefully kissed Stan’s cheek, then looked back to the book and turned the page, to read on about his mother’s family.

            And there, in miniature, were portraits of her parents. Kyle’s grandparents. An elven lord and a human noblewoman. His grandfather, so the book said, had hailed from the eastern borders of the forest; his grandmother from one of the seaside regions in what now was Princess Kenny’s domain. She had traveled from her home by the shore to Larnion, and stayed upon becoming betrothed to Kyle’s grandfather. And, as the false Princess had proclaimed, died in childbirth.

            Kyle stared at the page for quite some time, reading it over and over, and then, finally, he nodded, fully accepting the words as truth. He turned the page again, to read on about his mother and her accomplishments, and read further still, taking in every detail about the short but quite prosperous reign of his parents.

            When he reached the end of that entry in the book, Kyle turned the page again and was shocked but unsurprised to find a portrait of himself. What surprised him, though, was finding that he recognized it. He remembered sitting for that portrait—it was the very first one he’d sat for as King, a few weeks after the end of the last battle against the West. He looked so young; Kyle realized upon looking back how truly _young_ the age of nine was. In the portrait, his expression was somber, and his mother’s ring hung round his neck, while his bare hands were folded in his lap.

            Kyle choked on his breath and closed the book in a hurry, then folded his arms over the back cover and buried his head in them. The anguish from ten years past began to sink in, but Stan was there, and he set a hand on Kyle’s back in reassurance. Kyle took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

            “Would it have been so hard,” Kyle asked rhetorically, “for them to simply tell me the truth? It stings so much worse, knowing that it was hidden for hardly any reason at all.”

            “I’m sure your parents intended to tell you themselves,” Stan offered. “The battle arose so suddenly, perhaps their wishes simply did not make it into their will in time.”

            “Oh, Stan, I hope that so much is true,” Kyle said. He picked his head up so that he could face Stan, and when a few tears fell, Stan gently brushed them away. “You know, Stan, I… I can just barely remember my mother saying that there were things that she needed to tell me, but I was too young then to know.”

            Kyle let more tears come, and lay his hands in his lap, clutching fistfuls of the silk of his robe, trying to remember his mother; her warmth and her words. Kyle always had been closer to his mother than to his father when he was a small child, and he wondered now if that was because he shared so much in common with her. “I could have known, Stan,” Kyle said in a whisper, as Stan again carefully brushed Kyle’s tears away. “I could have known about this, about this weakness, about…”

            “No,” Stan said. “Kyle, no. It isn’t a weakness. You’ve denounced it as such, don’t call it that yourself. Can’t you see how strong a leader, how strong a person you are? Even with your council pushing back, there is so much that you have accomplished, Kyle. Knowing about your human blood now doesn’t change that. And it won’t change the reign ahead of you. No matter what, Kyle, I know your parents would be proud.”

            Kyle took a deep breath and let it out slowly, nodding. He thanked Stan with a smile, then let his gaze light on the rolled-up parchment. Slightly trembling, Kyle took up the scroll and held it between them.

            “Oh,” Kyle said upon unraveling it, “it’s… it’s a letter. From the soothsayer. I don’t quite know what I was expecting. A report?”

            “Is this better?” Stan wondered.

            “Well… I suppose we’ll see,” Kyle said, and began to read.

            _Your Majesties,_ the letter began.

            _I am honored that you thought to come to me regarding your concerns for your son, the Crown Prince. As you may already have presumed, he shows incredible promise as a sorcerer, but such power will indeed come with the price of human mortality. I am sorry to issue such news to your majesties, as of course the united elven kingdoms would have been proud to see the Prince’s own rise to a long and prosperous reign in the kingdom of Larnion._

_Though illness may befall him, and though his years will be counted in a similar fashion to those of Her Majesty the Queen, I see great power in him, and the makings of a strong and noble ruler. Your majesties need not fear for your son, for he is destined to accomplish great things. I do encourage, however, that he be socialized with humans as much as possible, so that news of his truth, when your majesties choose to tell it, will not cause him too much of a shock._

_May His Highness the Prince live a grand and successful life, for as long as he may live and reign._

            Kyle let out a breath that he was holding, and then read the letter again. The letter proved that Kyle’s parents had been unsure as to how his human ancestry would manifest in him, if at all, and he wondered if his parents’ taking in of Ike as their ward was something of an exchange; a courtesy to the King and Queen of the north, who had several children of their own already, in exchange for their soothsayer’s analysis of Kyle.

            He did wonder, then, when his parents had intended to tell him, but the letter also brought to light a reason why his parents may have been so supportive of Stan joining the court from the beginning. Why they never minded Kyle being friends with Stan, or with the Creek. He really had seemed to have sought out human friends all on his own, perhaps out of a sort of latent kindred spiritship with them, knowing he was more like them than could otherwise be perceived.

            How dare the warlocks try to turn that into a weakness?

            Kyle set down the letter, then turned and took Stan’s hands in his. “Are you all right?” Stan asked, gently.

            Kyle nodded. “I am,” he said. “And I will continue to be. I do wish for my kingdom to know this truth about me, once this battle is all said and done, but for now, it’s… Stan, it’s such a relief. I’m glad to know everything. I’m furious with my council, don’t get me wrong, and I do get the sense that after further interrogation I will be removing several of them from their positions in a few months’ time, but… yes. I’m glad to know.

            “It is so much better,” he went on, “having this knowledge prior to rising to full reign than trying to piece it all together then. I can… I can focus on more important, more immediate issues now. When we return from…”

            Kyle trailed off.

            He looked down at their clasped hands, and leaned in to rest his head on Stan’s. And he asked, warily, “Stan?”

            “Yes, Kyle?”

            “Suppose… suppose we don’t come back.”

            Stan gasped, and shifted so that he could look Kyle in the eyes. “No,” he said. “No, we mustn’t think that way, Kyle. We will—”

            “My parents thought that they would return,” Kyle insisted, “and look at the mess my council created in the wake of their loss. I won’t… I won’t do that. I won’t do that to my kingdom, I won’t do that to Ike.”

            Kyle stood and frantically rushed for a writing desk. He cut a length of parchment and sought out a quill, but his hands were shaking. He bent over the desk and took steadying breaths, eyes fixed to the blank parchment.

            Stan rose quickly and went to him. He stood at Kyle’s side with one hand on Kyle’s back for reassurance. “Do what you must,” Stan encouraged him, “but do not write in haste. And do not write with the surety that we will not return. You must believe, even as you make what could be your final decrees, Kyle, that this is not the end. This cannot be the end.”

            Carefully, Kyle righted his stance. He brushed his left hand against Stan’s cheek, and gave him a small, tender kiss. They had only just begun to share their love; Kyle would not allow the world to end it now.

            Even so, Kyle took up the quill, then, and began to write. He knew what battles could bring. He had a plan; his army and his allies had a plan, but warlocks did not follow rules, they did not care for order. If all else failed, Kyle would not allow Larnion to fall. He would not let his kingdom dissolve into chaos with his council scrambling about first of all to find his heir and then again to prepare him to rule.

            For quite some time, the two remained in the library as Kyle wrote out his decrees, with Stan beside him offering comfort and guidance. And, oh, how Kyle wished that even long after the war was over, the two could again and always stand side by side, helping one another for the good of the kingdom, just as they did that day.

* * *

            Stan was eight years old when he first heard tales of the Wizard King.

            He sounded like a fairy tale, Stan thought: a manipulative, shape-shifting monster who could hold sway over humans, with the ability to grant power and drain it away however he wished. But the more frequently the Wizard King appeared in the books Stan read, the more seriously he was spoken about by the knights who oversaw the pages and squires at the schoolhouse, the more real and frightening the man became.

            “If he’s so powerful,” Stan asked fellow squire not long after his own affirmation into the rank, “then what’s stopping him from taking over all of Zaron?”

            “Well, we are,” said the other squire.

            “The knights?”

            “No. _We._ All of Larnion. The King and Queen. The spirits. Larnion protects all the rest of the land from succumbing to dark magic.”

            And then the time did come when Stan, at nearly ten years old, watched the knights and elder squires march off to war at the command and later at the heels of the King and Queen. He watched them go; he did not see to their return.

            When news came of Larnion’s rulers’ deaths in battle, Stan abandoned his duties and sprinted to the palace, not believing a word. He pushed past the guards at the gate and the throngs of mourners in the courtyard; he fell while rushing up the steps and scraped his knee but he continued running until he shoved his way through the door guards and called out Kyle’s name into the large, empty hall. Stan looked around and saw that the usual gleam of the palace interior seemed dimmer, as if the forest itself had begun to mourn the loss.

            “No, no… Kyle!” Stan called out again. Heart pounding, he made what he thought to be the most logical decision and rushed to the council chamber.

            Stan had never been inside the room before that day, and despite the guards at the door protesting and trying to grab him and pull him back, Stan shoved them off and pried open one of the doors. He stumbled inside and the room went quiet. The long table was filled with the many advisors and councilors Stan had seen about the palace and grounds before, and at the head of it were two large, ornate chairs. Only one was occupied.

            Kyle sat in what should have been his father’s chair, with his head bowed and his hands folded and shaking on his lap, the fingers of his right hand nervously rubbing the back of his left as he tried not to cry. His robe was a dark autumn brown—the color of the wilted and dead leaves that covered the ground when the most prominent season in Larnion ended, which had long been the kingdom’s chosen color for mourning the fallen.

            “Kyle?” Stan said, and Kyle had only just gasped and picked his head up to look in Stan’s direction when the guards caught up with him and pulled Stan back by each arm. “Let me go!” Stan protested.

            “Forgive the squire’s intrusion,” one of the guards said to the council and to Kyle. “He—”

            “Let him go,” Kyle asked, his voice barely audible.

            “Your highness?”

            “Please let him go,” Kyle asked again. He looked around at the seated council, then let fall a few tears and slid down from his chair and rushed to Stan, embracing him as soon as the guards loosed their grip.

            Stan returned the embrace, and could think of nothing else to say but, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Kyle.”

            “No,” Kyle said in a broken whisper as he still tried not to fully cry, “there’s nothing you could have done.”

            “What can… what can I do now?” Stan wondered. “Is there anything that I can do for you now?”

            “Just be here, Stan,” Kyle asked. “Be here with me? I can’t do this alone.”

            Stan promised, “I’m here.”

            And despite protestations from both the council and the elder knights due to his age, Stan was knighted the following day, mere hours after Kyle himself had been crowned King. On the next day, Stan found himself once again in the council chamber, standing armed and in uniform beside the Captain of the Guard in a row of knights selected for what Kyle had said with extreme confidence would be the last time Larnion soldiers would march west to fight the Demon King. This time, Kyle said, they would be victorious.

            Briefings were given, then, about the nature of their enemies, expanding far more on the knowledge Stan had been privy to as a page or squire about the western kingdom.

            “As we know,” one of the advisors, a war strategist, was saying, “the western sovereigns alternate based on which at any given time holds the most power. This is where we must be extremely cautious of the one who has crowned himself the Wizard King.”

            “Crowned himself?” Kyle asked, uncomfortable in his new role but projecting strength for the sake of all others present. “Can such a thing be done?”

            “The western sovereigns pay no heed to the laws of time and space, sire,” the advisor said. “Nor do they follow order the way we and our allies have for generations. The one who has crowned himself King has cut down his own to elevate his authority, and it was he who discovered the Stick of Truth—an ancient human relic long thought to be lost.”

            “And it is the Stick,” Kyle asked, “which is giving power to the Demon King?”

            “The Stick chose a vessel, yes,” said the advisor. “To our knowledge, the vessel is, or was, human.”

            “And this Wizard King,” Kyle said, spitting out the name. “He allowed the Stick to pass to powerless human hands?”

            “From what our intelligence reports, sire, yes.”

            “Then he is our true enemy,” Kyle said. “Once we destroy the Stick of Truth, we must seek out, and stop, and… and _banish_ the Wizard King from Zaron.”

            “Banish?” asked the Captain of the Guard. “Do you not wish to see him slain, sire?”

            Kyle turned to address him and the rest of the knights, his eyes falling on Stan for a few extra seconds. “Banishment is a spell that can be performed from a distance by any in your army gifted with magic,” Kyle said. “Attempts to take such a powerful warlock’s life would only end in more bloodshed. I want him to be where he cannot hurt anyone anymore.”

            “As you wish, sire.”

            And it was just such an order that the faction Stan marched with into battle carried with them. When Stan and Kyle parted on the battlefield, Kyle to the summit where the Demon King controlled his legions of the undead and Stan to the fray, the knights charged onward to seek out the Wizard King.

            Stan had been well trained in the ways of the sword during his short time as a squire, but he had not yet been fully trained for war. Striking down the undead was less of an immediate shock to Stan than cutting down a living army would have been, and he pressed on to keep up with his fellow soldiers, his youth and agility working to his advantage where his strength was not yet to the level of his elders.

            When he and the several other knights in his faction reached a shadowy, barren, rocky plateau, Stan saw the Wizard King for the first time, though he would never have known the stranger’s identity at first glance.

            Before Stan and his fellow knights stood a young boy of large stature, leaning against a long white wooden staff.

            “State your name, child,” the Captain of the Guard called out. “Are you injured? Are you a child of the warlocks?”

            The boy looked up at the summit where the Demon King stood, then rolled his head to look over each of the knights, still resting against the staff. “My name?” the boy said. “My name was Eric once, but I traded it away. Now I am whatever I want to be.”

            He folded his arms, but still leaned against the staff, which remained in place. The knights took up their swords and Stan followed suit. “What are you?” another knight demanded. “Is this a trick? Are you the true Demon King?”

            The boy stood up and set his right hand against the tall staff. “No,” he said, and grinned. “I’m worse.”

            He grabbed the staff and swept it toward the knights. Stan ducked out of the way as the entire first line was blown off the edge of the plateau. Stan gasped, and gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands.

            “I’m King of this land!” the boy shouted to those who still stood. He held his staff aloft, and went on, “And soon I will be King of all of Zaron!”

            He brought down the staff and in a bolt of darkness a man stood where the boy had been, with a long brown beard and eyes that pierced like the pits of every hell. The man swept the staff through the air again and still more of the knights were blown backward, leaving only Stan and a handful of others, the Captain included.

            “This is hardly even worth a fight,” said the Wizard King. He grinned the same grin he had when he looked like a child, and said, “How’s this? I’ll let you all try to run. I’ll give you the count of ten. Make it worth the chase, won’t you?”

            The Wizard King called out the numbers slowly, and Stan was grabbed into a circle of the remaining knights, who all knealt to Stan’s height as the Captain, gifted in enchantment as well as the sword, stated his plan: “Stanley— _Sir_ Stanley, can you try to distract the man? You’re quick, and I can perform the banishment the King ordered if I’ve enough time to weave the spell.”

            Stan was worried and afraid, but he gripped his sword and nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he said.

            “Be careful, young one,” said the knights’ Captain. “We have all seen how highly the Prince—the _King_ treasures you. Return to him when this is done. He is now our King, but he is still a child. He’s going to need someone his own age to talk to in his time of grief.”

            Stan nodded, and took a deep breath for strength before saying with still more resolve, “Yes, Sir.”

            Tasked with his orders, Stan broke from the circle and took steps toward the Wizard King, who had just called out the number _nine._ The warlock laughed. “Is this your plan, knights?” he taunted. “You’ve sent a child to fight me? I told you I wanted a challenge.”

            “Then I challenge you, Wizard King,” Stan said, holding out his sword. Inside he was trembling, but he had promised Kyle that he would return, and Stan had not yet made a promise that he could not keep. “Are you really the man you appear to be, or are you a child yourself? Eric?”

            The Wizard King scowled, and leaned forward, propping himself up with his staff. All warlocks, and all dark magic, Stan realized, must rely on a physical component, unlike elven magic that primarily drew from the threads of the world. Destroy the Stick of Truth, Stan reasoned, and the Demon King would be gone; destroy the white staff, and the Wizard King would be no more. Stan would not strike to draw blood. He would strike to damage the Wizard King’s magic.

            “I abandoned my name long ago,” said the Wizard King, “in exchange for power.”

            “Then,” Stan asked, “why did you give it when you were prompted?”

            “Only to inform you of what I am not,” was the warlock’s answer, though his unimpressed scowl returned, telling Stan that it had most likely been a slip of the tongue. “You should be much more concerned with what I am.”

            “And what are you?”

            “As I have said. I am the future sovereign of all of Zaron. You’ll kneel before me, little knight. If you live.”

            Stan let out a yell and rushed forward to feign an attack. When the Wizard King raised his staff to counter, Stan feinted and darted aside, causing the strike to miss and giving Stan the opportunity to rush behind the warlock and thrust his sword out at the white staff from behind.

            The Wizard King recovered it quickly and swept it back. When the staff moved, a swirl of wind moved with it, and Stan felt a blast of it hit his chest and send him sprawling backward. Even as he fell to the ground he did not let go of his sword. When his breath returned after a few forced gasps, Stan darted at his foe again, once more dodging the next attack and managing to get a strike against the warlock’s weapon.

            Stan’s sword was not as strong as the other knights’, however, and he knew that his small weapon could do little against an artifact of such power. Perhaps a sword with a stronger bond to its wielder could do greater damage, Stan thought, but at this rate, he could easily die of fatigue from trying to best the man alone.

            Stan was not alone that day, however, and he had indeed bought the Captain of the Guard enough time to weave a spell in secret while the Wizard King was occupied in fighting the youngest of the knights. Stan turned to see that his commanding officer had readied and aligned the banishment spell, as glowing threads became known in the air, and rushed back and away from the Wizard King before the banishment spell was uttered.

            Caught off guard, the Wizard King had no time to counter the invocation, and within moments, the warlock was gone, his staff with him.

            Stan still stared at the spot where the man had stood, convinced that a warlock with the ability to change his shape and ignore the laws of time and space could yet counter even a banishment spell, but the Wizard King did not return. Satisfied, Stan rushed to the Captain of the Guard. The knight was of an older generation, even by elven standards, and despite the pride of his position had accepted the support of two of the other senior knights to keep his footing.

            “What now, Sir?” Stan asked. And then, concerned, “Are you well?”

            “I will be, with time,” said the Captain. “The threads of magic are thin here, and most are fractured. I fear for our King, should he try to weave an invocation himself. Find the King. Take two soldiers with you. Do not let him overexert himself. Even with the assistance of the staff of his ancestors, the magic here is not as forgiving as the spirits allow it to be in Larnion.”

            Stan’s heart sped up, and he saluted before he ran back to the base of the Demon King’s summit, hearing the footfalls of two of the other knights behind him.

            But it would bother him for some time to come—where, precisely, had the Wizard King gone? After many years, Stan had accepted that the man truly had been banished from the land of Zaron itself, but the fear of the warlock’s return remained in the back of his mind. And he did again begin to recall what he had discovered on the battlefield that day: that dark magic users were not attuned to the fabric of the world, that a warlock’s weapon was the source of all their power.

            There could yet be a way to defeat the Wizard King once and for all.

* * *

            The allied armies rode forth from Larnion before dusk. War and infirmary carriages were hitched to the stables’ strongest horses, and factions were comprised of knights from Stan’s army, from the cleric Token’s gathered troops, and from the legions of Valkyrie. Apart from the ordered troops, Feldspar and Thresher rode closely behind Kyle and Stan, having accepted Stan’s offer earlier in the day of horses, despite the Creek’s usual preference to do battle entirely on foot.

            Clyde, too, had not been assigned to one of the factions, and he kept rather quiet, riding close to Commander Wendy and her sisters Nichole and Bebe to assist in keeping an eye on the offering they had prepared that afternoon for the witch that lived in the western Midland bog the soldiers now were riding toward.

            When the war party stopped at the Midland border, with the moon halfway into the sky, to set up camp, Stan sought out the ranger, not having truly exchanged many words with him since he had left his sister’s manor. Clyde was easy to find, from the cloud of smoke emanating from his pipe. He was standing against a presently unused hitching post near a line of the Valkyrie’s steeds; his hat rested atop the post, his hair had been tied hastily back at the nape of his neck, and he again looked to be in need of a shave. And yet he did look more relaxed and in his element than he had since—Stan thought on it, but Clyde truly had not seemed relaxed since before Stan had revealed that he was a knight of Larnion.

            “You’re really riding west with us?” Stan asked as he approached.

            Clyde lifted his eyes to look at Stan, then plucked his pipe from his mouth, blew a line of smoke into the air, and said, “Ah. Well met, Sir. Er, my lord. Which do you prefer now?”

            Stan smiled, and stood at a fair distance with his hands behind his back, as he had done for so many years as a member of the court. “Sir is my preferred title,” he said calmly, “and the one I do rightfully hold.”

            Clyde grinned a little and said, “All the same to me, Sir.”

            “Well enough. Now, to my question, are you—?”

            “Yes,” Clyde said. He slipped the pipe between his lips again, and puffed out smoke as he spoke the words, “I’ve made my mind up. It’s fate, I believe. Your King spared my life, and you have treated me with respect, Sir. It’s my duty to serve you even if it means riding west. Besides, I don’t think I could pass up a chance to look that Wizard King in the eyes and let him see that I survived. That the Demon King may once have taken control of my body but he did not mar my spirit.”

            Stan could not suppress a gasp at the bold statement. “Clyde, that’s incredibly brave of you to say,” he complimented the ranger.

            Clyde shrugged, and blew smoke out his nostrils. “It’s as I said. I’m through hiding for what I’ve done. I choose now to act.” Clyde then let out a huff of a sigh and said, “It’s your fault, you know. Working so long for such an obnoxiously chivalrous knight was bound to take some sort of toll on me.”

            Stan laughed. “Where I come from,” he said, “we call that friendship.”

            “Ugh,” Clyde said, making a mocking show of displeasure with a roll of his eyes.

            But Stan only laughed again, took another step closer to the ranger, and held out his right hand. “Friends?” he asked.

            Clyde snuffed out his pipe and tucked it away, exhaled the last bit of smoke, then shook Stan’s hand without reluctance. “Friends,” he agreed. “Can’t be all bad, I suppose, being an ally of the highest ranking knight in Larnion.”

            Stan smiled as the two drew their hands back. “I’m sure, given time, you’ll win my King’s trust enough for a pact of friendship with him as well,” he said.           

            Clyde let out a low whistle. “I’m not sure about that, Sir,” he said, “but he has my hands in times of need.” Before Stan could turn to go, Clyde grinned again, and asked, “Your King, eh? I trust you two have had a chance to reunite? Being… close, as you are.”

            Stan flushed, and cleared his throat as he thought up an answer. “Yes,” was all he could think to say at first. And then, “I am grateful that I was able to return home in the way that I did. It was a great delight and relief to see him again.”

            “Hmm,” Clyde said, his grin becoming a smirk as he took his pipe out again. “Sure. Now stop wasting your time talking with me,” he said, taking out his dagger and flint to light the pipe, “and go… conversate with him some more, or whatever it is you chaste knights do.”

            “Ah, well—” Stan started, only to realize he’d given himself away.

            Clyde laughed. He struck a spark over his pipe, tucked the dagger and flint away, and said, “You’re something else, Marsh. Not quite sure what, but you are. Now, I meant it. Go. Leave. Go be with your lo—”

            “I will,” Stan cut in quickly, prompting Clyde to laugh again. He hesitated, and ventured to ask, “What of you, then? Have you spoken at all to the Valkyrie?”

            “Eh, which one? I’ve exchanged words with a few now.”

            “The one called Bebe,” Stan said. “With the blonde hair.”

            Clyde went a shade of red that made his scars appear bright white. “Er, I have—” he said.

            “And?”

            Clyde said in a rush, “— _thought about it._ I have _thought about it.”_

            Stan clapped a hand on the ranger’s shoulder. “Best of luck to you should you go about it, then.”

            “I’m not sure I like calling you a friend, Sir.”

            Stan laughed, and left for his war tent. As Captain of the Guard, he was permitted his own, which served the dual purpose of rest and strategy. A table had been placed to one side, and atop it was a map that Token had drafted with Kyle’s councilors, which detailed the armies’ route through the western Midlands and into the warlocks’ kingdom. With it, rolled up and sealed, was a list written by Thresher of the items he, Feldspar, Clyde, and Commander Wendy had gathered as a potential offering to the witch that Clyde knew. Stan had seen the items being packed generously together, and they were now under Wendy’s watchful eye in her own tent. The items were rare, and, for a witch, the best the kingdom could offer short of any lives lost. Stan hoped that they would be enough.

            Restless, he removed the light armor he had worn on the ride to the border, and left his tent for a walk. He surveyed the campground, ensuring that guards had been posted and watch hours had been set among his soldiers, and that the medics were prepared for any incidents that could befall a single person in the coming days.

            Finally, he sought out Kyle.

            Kyle sat outside his own war tent, prodding the embers of his campfire with a long stick. As he glanced up to survey the horizon of the land that would soon become a battlefield, he drew in a small gasp as he saw Stan, and Stan smiled reassuringly as he drew nearer. Kyle smiled up at him in return, and Stan sat down beside Kyle, so close that their shoulders touched.

            “Still awake?” Stan asked.

            “As you can see,” Kyle said with a small sigh. “It will be morning before we know it, Stan. I am prepared, but it hurts me to think of marching our soldiers into yet another battle against the same enemy we overpowered ten years ago.”

            “We’re here to save the Princesses,” Stan reminded him. “It doesn’t have to come to war. It’s as we decided: we’ll retreat as soon as Princess Kenny and Princess Karen are safely with our ranks.”

            “But how many lives will be lost by the time we reach them?” Kyle asked, turning to look Stan in the eyes with worry.

            Stan glanced around their immediate area. Finding no one within close enough sight to look on, he turned back and gently cupped Kyle’s face in his hands, and pressed his forehead to Kyle’s. “Our soldiers will fight, Kyle,” he said, “and they will win. We will win. And there is nothing, Kyle, nothing in all the realms that will take me from you or you from me again. Not at this time. I promise you that.”

            Kyle nodded, and shivered a little in the cool air. Without hesitation, Stan removed his cloak and set it around Kyle’s shoulders. Kyle huddled beneath it and gathered it around himself, smiled gratefully at Stan, then rested his head on Stan’s shoulder.

            “Stay with me tonight?” Kyle asked.

            Stan paused a moment before answering. “Are you sure?”

            “Tomorrow we go to battle, Stan. I do not know what will come after that.” Kyle drew a wary breath, and clutched Stan’s cloak even tighter. “I do not know whether the Princess really intended her proposal,” he went on, and Stan’s heart skipped. “I do not know what power my council may try to seize back. But tonight, I do not care. I don’t care what the Princess intended, or what my advisors might say. Tonight, I wish to be happy, so that I can have all the more to fight for when the sun rises.”

            Stan carefully touched a hand to Kyle’s cheek, prompting Kyle to lift his head. Each was caught for a moment in the other’s gaze, and then Stan took up Kyle’s left hand, kissed the back of it, and stood, beckoning Kyle up to standing as well. Stan offered Kyle his arm, and Kyle took it, but kept one had clutched to Stan’s cloak to keep it around his own shoulders. The two moved without a word from the field to the tent, and Kyle nodded to the guards at the entry to let them know that he was turning in for the night; that only a crisis should be cause for him to be disturbed.

            In the quiet of the tent, Kyle drew Stan to him and kissed him desperately. Stan set his hands protectively on Kyle’s waist and kissed him in return.

            Kyle rested his head on Stan’s, and slowly stroked his hands down Stan’s chest as the cloak wrapped around Kyle’s shoulders fluttered to the floor. Stan moved one hand to the small of Kyle’s back and drew him in closer, and as the two stood close together, sharing one another’s warmth, the day seemed to slip away behind them as the night closed in as if to once again keep them in the safety of a world of their own.

            Stan pressed a gentle kiss to Kyle’s temple, and then to the corner of his left eye, then bent his head to kiss the hinge of Kyle’s jaw, and then the side of his neck. Kyle gripped the fabric of the tunic at Stan’s waist with his left hand and brought up his right to cradle the back of Stan’s head before they moved into another kiss.

            When their lips parted, Kyle caught Stan’s gaze and asked again, “Stay with me? Don’t go.”

            Stan held a hand to Kyle’s cheek, and smiled, and promised, “I’m here. I’ll stay the night through.”

            “And always?” Kyle asked.

            Kyle’s green eyes glittered with hope and love, and though Stan still harbored doubts that beyond that night the two could ever be more than secret lovers, he chose to embrace that single moment as a sort of eternity, and kissed Kyle fully before he answered, “And always, my darling. Ever and always, I am yours.”

            Kyle pulled Stan in for a tight embrace. “And I yours, my love,” he said.

            They kissed again twice before parting to lay aside swords and trappings; Kyle removed his crown and no sooner had he placed it on its requisite table than Stan stood beside him, combing his fingers soothingly back through Kyle’s hair.

            Together they arrived at the bed established at one side of the tent, and made love with no regard for whether at any moment news should arrive from within or beyond the camp. The world was quiet and still, and theirs once again to discover; two as one.

            After some time, the night still offered them reprieve, and the two lay together, holding one another in the small but exquisite bed.

            Kyle nestled close to Stan, petting one hand through his hair as he kissed Stan’s forehead. “You called me _beautiful_ today,” Kyle recalled from the morning.

            “I did,” Stan said, admiring the glow that again surrounded his lover. “For you are.”

            Kyle beamed at the words, and kissed Stan gently. “As are you, Stan,” he said.

            Stan drew in a light but elated gasp at the compliment. He drew Kyle in and held him close, listening to his breath and the pace of his heart, basking in the radiance of his warmth. Kyle gripped him tightly in return, and then, heart pounding, Kyle drew back somewhat to kiss Stan firmly, and then again.

            A question began to burn in Kyle’s mind, and there it remained like embers as they kissed, until at last the words were spoken to the air.

            “If it could be so, my love,” Kyle asked, “would you marry me?”

            “A thousand times over,” Stan answered, “if such things could be.”

            Tears filled Kyle’s eyes, and Stan kissed them away as they fell. “Gods and spirits,” Kyle whispered out a prayer, “if I am to age as a human, let me do so with you, Stan.” Stan kissed Kyle’s cheek, and Kyle held Stan to him, petting back his hair. “Let me wake every morning to see you. Let me be with you as the moonlight from so many nights kisses your hair silver until we both become stars. Let me love you, forever and always.”

            Stan lifted his head to look Kyle in the eyes, then brushed a hand against his cheek and kissed Kyle fondly, and then again. He positioned himself over Kyle and stroked his free hand against Kyle’s hip, and then his thigh, ready to begin again.

            “Please,” Kyle finished his wish to the world between kisses, “let us know such happiness for the rest of our lives.”

– – –

            In the stillness of the following morning, Kyle woke still wrapped in Stan’s arms, and the two shared a kiss before Stan rose and dressed. Before he could leave, Stan returned to the side of the bed and knealt, brushing his left hand back through Kyle’s hair as he bent in to kiss his forehead. “All will be well, my love,” Stan said quietly. “I promise.”

            “Stan?” Kyle asked, with sleep still in the volume of his voice.

            “Yes?”

            “When next we speak, it will be on the road to battle,” Kyle said. He drew Stan in for another kiss, then traced one hand across Stan’s shoulder and said, “Fight well, my love. Be safe.”

            “I will,” Stan said. Smiling, he added, “I’m still carrying your luck, remember?”

            Kyle beamed, and the morning’s soft light surrounded him. “Of course,” he said.

            “And here,” Stan said, “is mine, for you.” He took up Kyle’s right hand and kissed the back of it. “My wish of luck, and courage, and all you could ever need to lead us into victory.” Echoing Kyle’s words, Stan added, “Fight well and be safe, my noble King.”

            Kyle smiled, and said, “May victory be yours again and again, my steadfast knight.”

            Stan left Kyle with one last kiss before he rose and returned quietly to his own tent to prepare himself for the day. Kyle lay awake and silent a moment longer, staring at the fabric of the tent as it began to catch the light of the sun, then slowly rose and dressed as far as his tunic and trousers.

            He paced a while, considering the course of action about to transpire. For the second time in ten years, he was leading troops against a common enemy. He would not, Kyle told himself, be tricked again. He would not lose anyone close to him again.

            Attendants then came in to assist Kyle with his armor. Once prepared, he stepped out onto the field, finding that his soldiers and allies had already gathered, and were awaiting orders.

            Kyle drew a deep breath and held out his right hand. He closed his eyes, and summoned the staff of his ancestors once again into his upturned palm. He then closed his hand around it, opened his eyes, and held the staff aloft.

            “Soldiers and allies of Larnion,” he addressed the crowd, “today, we march west to save Princess Kenny, Princess Karen, and the future of all our lands. Let today be nothing less than victory for the allied kingdoms of Zaron!”

            A rallying cry went up among the crowd.

            Moments later, Kyle was mounted on his warhorse, riding west, his father’s crown on his head, his mother’s ring on his hand, and Stan riding at his side.

            So often over the years, Kyle had resented being King, and wished to curse the expectations of his noble status. But today, Kyle knew that this was his fight to command. Larnion was his kingdom to save. And he felt all the stronger knowing that he may yet be able to rule on better terms, that he may yet be able to create a better future for himself, his knight, and his kingdom, once all of this was done.

– – –

 


	14. XIV. The Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kyle and Stan lead their allied forces to the west, and come face to face with both an old enemy and an old friend.

            Kyle and Stan rode at the front of the party, with Wendy, Clyde, and the Creek close behind. The air grew thick and hazy the further into the western Midlands they went, as the heat from the prominent western summer began to creep in. Soon, mist almost completely surrounded them, and the plant life began to change from slightly familiar to the stooped branches and vines of a swamp. The road narrowed, and most of the party realigned as they all tread cautiously into the unfamiliar land.

            From his position, Clyde said, “We’re close, your highness.”

            “Very well,” said Kyle. “Take the lead.”

            “Sire?”

            “You know this witch, don’t you?” Kyle said. “I’m asking you to take the lead and try to convince her to let us through.”

            Clyde nodded. “Yes, sire,” he said, and brought his horse forward.

            They rode a while longer until Clyde stopped, causing the others to do the same. Slowly, Clyde unwrapped the bandages on his hands and tucked them into his belt. He held his hands out in front of him, palms pressed forward. He took a deep breath, and said, “Henrietta. I’m back.”

            “Well,” said a woman’s voice from everywhere around them. “How about that?”

            There was a burst of smoke a few paces in front of Clyde, and as most of Kyle’s soldiers and even the Valkyrie calmed their spooked horses, Kyle saw the form of a woman appear in the smoke. A breath could be heard, and then the smoke completely gathered itself up into a small stack emanating from the pipe of a large woman with deathly pale skin and thick black hair that fell wildly around her head and down her back. She was dressed entirely in black, and wore a necklace of the bones of small animals.

            She bit the mouthpiece of her pipe and grinned, then delicately held the pipe out and blew a cloud of smoke into the hazy air. “Been a while, Clyde,” she said.

            Clyde lowered his hands and dismounted, taking a few steps closer to the witch, Henrietta. “Ten years,” Clyde said.

            “Hmm.”

            As soon as he stood in front of her, Henrietta grabbed Clyde’s wrists and yanked his burned hands up to examine the tattoos on his palms. “Hmm,” she said again. “Not too much further damage. I assume you don’t need these re-cast.”

            “No.”

            “Finally paying another visit to the wizards, then?”

            “Not exactly,” Clyde said. “But I do need safe passage there and back.”

            “Yeah?” Henrietta let go of Clyde’s wrists and stepped back, took her pipe out of her clenched teeth, and blew smoke into the air. She ticked her head toward the war party and asked, “Care to introduce me to your friends?”

            “Ah… well…” Clyde turned slightly to gesture toward the others, and exchanged a glance with both Kyle and Stan before saying to Henrietta, “I need to request your help, Henrietta. This is the High Elf King, and his army, and, ah… well, also quite a few Valkyrie, and they’ve all a bit of business to settle in the west.”

            “Really?” said Henrietta. She scanned the sight of the combined army for a moment. Her eyes were a dark, foggy grey, and she seemed to study every individual soldier in the span of mere seconds. “I’ll take a Valkyrie,” she said.

            “Pardon?” said Clyde.

            “I offered _you_ passage back to and from the west,” Henrietta said. “I need payment for the rest. One Valkyrie’s a fair trade.”

            “I can’t trade another person’s life, Henrietta.”

            “Suit yourself,” said Henrietta, shrugging one shoulder. She exhaled another long trail of smoke and declared, looking directly at Clyde, “I’ll just take another few years off of yours. Six should do.”

            _“Six?!”_

            “Absolutely not,” Kyle interrupted.

            Henrietta stepped forward, placing herself directly in front of the combined forces, unarmed and unafraid, projecting to all that she could easily do whatever she wished with any one of them without batting an eye. “You must be the King,” she said, unimpressed.

            “That I am,” said Kyle. “Witch Henrietta, I believe I have something to offer you in exchange for our safe passage through the border.”

            “I’m not interested in gold, your majesty.”

            “It’s highness,” Kyle corrected sharply. “And I’m not offering you gold. I’m offering you this.”

            Stan signaled to Wendy, who rode forward with three of her Valkyrie sisters, carrying between them the chest full of the offering that had been prepared the previous day. Stan drew forth the sealed parchment that Thresher had prepared, listing the contents of the chest that the Valkyrie now set down a few paces in front of the witch.

            Stan dismounted, and walked ahead of the Valkyrie to extend the scroll to Henrietta. The witch considered it a moment, then took the scroll and slit the wax seal with one sharp fingernail. She set it in the air in front of her, where the parchment hovered and unraveled at the height of her gaze, and her grey eyes widened upon reading the list.

            “Well,” she remarked. “Let’s have a look, then.”

            Commander Wendy herself drew back the lid of the chest, and the witch did indeed seem impressed. “Haven’t seen one of these in years,” Henrietta commented.

            Inside the chest, salvaged the day before from its otherwise slow destruction by natural fire, were several gathered remains of the frost dragon that had been posing as Princess Kenny. The dragon’s head was intact and preserved inside the chest, scales and all, and all of her talons had been carefully removed by the Creek and the Valkyrie and lined up inside the chest, along with several other intact scales that had escaped burning.

            “Frost dragons are a rarity, I hear,” Kyle said. “I’m sure this may be of interest to you.”

            Henrietta set one hand on her hip and took a long inhalation through her pipe. She moved forward and bent over the dragon’s remains, and blew the smoke out around it. The aura surrounding the dragon’s head crystallized the smoke into tiny visible particles before it dissipated. Henrietta grinned. “Was this found or slain?” she asked.

            “Slain,” Stan answered. “By myself and my King.”

            Henrietta slowly showed a grin. “All right, then,” she said. “Not every day a dragonslayer gives up his spoils. I’ll allow passage. There and back, but only once.”

            “You have my thanks,” Kyle offered.

            “I don’t want your thanks,” Henrietta said. She swept a hand in the air over the dragon’s head and remains, and the chest and its contents vanished, relocating to a place unknown. “But I’ll take another dragon, if you find yourself slaying more.”

            “There will be two others returning with us,” Kyle said. “I must ask that you grant them passage as well.”

            “Hmm. Hard bargain, Elf King,” said Henrietta, going back to her pipe. “What exactly is your business in the West?”

            “A simple rescue mission,” Kyle told her. “That’s all.”

            “I see.” Henrietta paused, and cast her eyes again over the gathered war party. She blew a trail of smoke toward the thicket of spindly trees and hanging vines on the winding road ahead, causing much of the flora to part and even bow to allow all through. _“Rescue_ me something from the warlocks and you may just have a road there and back whenever you like. But otherwise, I’ll be the judge of whomever rides back with you.”

            “What do you seek?” asked Stan.

            “Oh, anything at all,” said Henrietta. “They’ve all a knack for enchanted objects in that kingdom. I’m a magpie, knight; I’ll pick it up if it strikes my fancy.”

            “And anything possessed of dark magic will do so?”

            “We shall see, won’t we?”

            Stan considered prying further, but knew that it was best not to argue with a witch. He gave an assuring nod to Kyle, then signaled to the Valkyrie to re-mount. Clyde hesitated a moment, then followed suit.

            As Stan was again mounting his own warhorse, Kyle gave the command, “Feldspar. Thresher. Ride ahead and lead, if you would. You have the keenest senses for any laid traps we may encounter upon crossing the border.”

            The Creek rode forward as instructed, and Feldspar untied a small pouch from his belt. From within it, he took out a small handful of a finely mixed powder. He whispered to it in his upturned palm, then blew it into the air. The powder scattered forward into a single cloud, which then split into three and began to swirl about and take shape on the path until three fully fledged, not quite opaque shadow copies of Feldspar materialized from the airborne powder. Feldspar himself pointed forward on the path, and his conjured doubles nodded and broke off into a run, scouting to be Feldspar’s eyes several paces if not leagues ahead of the war party.

            Thresher drew his bow, and the Creek continued forward, following Feldspar’s shadow scouts. Stan and Kyle rode close behind, along with Clyde, and only when he was quite sure the front of the party was out of earshot of the witch did Stan move slightly forward to ask Thresher, “Why have you drawn?”

            “Hunter’s precaution, Sir, that’s all,” said the rogue. “Feldspar’s conjures are strong, but his own abilities are lessened until his doubles return or are destroyed. And if they are destroyed, he will know, and I will attack.”

            “I see,” Stan said. “I’ll keep the soldiers alerted.”

            Thresher simply nodded, and kept his keen gaze forward. Stan rode back only somewhat, long enough to give Thresher’s information to a squire who could spread the word quickly and quietly, and then Stan was once again at Kyle’s side.

            The road ahead was long yet, but the trees remained parted in order to let all through. The air grew heavy as the hot western summer began to permeate the border.

            “I don’t like this,” Kyle said after they had traveled on for quite some time. “Not a word from Feldspar’s conjures. No traps, no scouts guarding the path. It all reeks of an ambush.”

            “Clyde,” Stan asked of the ranger, “are you sure that the witch Henrietta is not an ally of the western sovereigns?”

            “She spoke distastefully of them, as I recall,” Clyde said. He paled. “Sir, I wouldn’t lead you into anything," he said quickly, "I—”

            “It’s all right,” Stan interrupted. “I feel I’ve known you long enough to trust your intentions. A witch is something entirely different.”

            “On my life, Sir, she’s a dark magic user, but not a spy. Otherwise, she’d never have helped me.”

            “Even if the witch is not involved,” Kyle said, “I can’t trust that the warlocks had no way of knowing when the enchantment was broken on the Hammer of Storms, or when their dragon was slain.”

            Suddenly, from ahead, Feldspar shouted, “Hold!”

            Kyle and Stan halted immediately, causing those behind them to do the same. Feldspar winced and doubled over, clutching his chest as he caught his breath as though he’d just been wounded.

            “What did you see?” Thresher asked his partner.

            “Ahead,” Feldspar managed, still catching his breath while trying to keep his head up and eyes forward. “Due west. Archers. Keen-eyed to have seen my illusion, too.”

            “How many?” Stan wondered.

            Feldspar fixed his gaze dead ahead, though it was clear that his sight was focused elsewhere, much further down the path. “Twenty, at the least,” Feldspar answered. “None appear to be warlocks, but I cannot say with certainty.” He turned stiffly to face the King and his knight, and said, “There’s a rough thicket of brambles ahead as well. Our best option is to burn through, but it would announce and expose us. I apologize, but with two of my illusions still active, I’d be unable to assist in casting any sort of protection…”

            “A protective spell would be of use,” Kyle agreed, “particularly if their numbers are far greater than the twenty you’ve spotted. I’d like to save my own conjures for flame, but we’ve many sorcerers in our number, haven’t we?”

            “Indeed. Could the cleric be of assistance?” Stan wondered, opening the question to Kyle and to the Creek. “I don’t mean to pry, but his ledger was cast with runes similar to those you use, Feldspar. You are suggesting illusory protection, correct?”

            “Yes, that’s so,” said Feldspar. “Token can create illusions, just as I can.”

            “Then I’ll burn the thicket,” Kyle decided, “and we’ll be masked behind an illusory wall. Stan? Commander Wendy?” he asked then.

            Wendy gave a nod, and called forward her soldiers, while Stan summoned forward his own best archers. Token rode to the front lines and dismounted, drawing from the belt round his robe a short, blunt staff adorned with gilded carvings. “A barrier would be best, sire,” he advised the King. “The Princess herself is fond of similar hidden attacks and defensive strategies.”

            “Let this be a testament to the strength of our kingdoms’ alliance, then,” Kyle said, hoping to have no talk at present of the still very real possibility of a marital union. “Cast what you must, Cleric Token. You have my trust.”

            The cleric nodded, and drew a long line in the dirt path with his staff. Soldiers readied their weapons, and the Creek dispersed to either side of the line as Token swiftly drew into the ground a sequence of ancient human runes. He then stood on the army’s side of the line, held the staff parallel to the outer runes, closed his eyes, and spoke an enchantment.

            The cleric’s staff gave off a golden light around its carvings, which the marks on the ground then shone back. Within an instant, a wall of glowing light rose up in the space in front of the King and his allied forces, not being knit together as Kyle’s magic was, but wafting like a vapor, signaling that this was indeed a magic meant to trick the eyes, not alter the fabric of the world from one pattern to the next.

            When Token again mounted his horse, he said, “The barrier is set, your highness. If you wish to attack by surprise, I advise that you do it quickly.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said.

            “Soldiers at the ready!” Stan called back to all. Spears and swords were held aloft; Stan kept a firm grip on his own at his side, as he planned to ride forward and strike fast should the moment come. Arrows were fitted to bows, and the Valkyrie were primed to ride forward at their Commander’s signal.

            Kyle brought his horse up precious few paces to the very edge of the illusory wall. The staff of his ancestors was strapped with his bow to the plate of armor that shielded his back; his quiver of arrows hung fully stocked from his belt. He held his right hand out, palm up, and conjured a large and growing ball of flame into it.

            “For the Princesses,” he said. “For Larnion. For the justice of all allied lands of Zaron!”

            A rallying cry went up, and soon was silenced by the roar of flame that Kyle threw forth from his hand into the thicket ahead. The brambles and branches burned away quickly, and the fire both rose and continued hissing forward, assuring a continued path into the warlocks’ barren, uninviting lands.

            Feldspar winced again when another of his illusory doubles was destroyed, and soon after, a scout wearing the spiny iron armor of the western kingdom came riding through the burned path with a bow drawn. Stan held up his free hand to keep his own archers at the ready.

            The western scout rode back and forth through the area ahead of the soldiers, but saw none. He whistled, and a group of six others rode forward as well.

            “Nothing?” one of the western soldiers remarked. “How can there be nothing?”

            “You saw it, didn’t you? That wasn’t wildfire. It never comes from the swamps.”

            “Then, what could it have been?”

            Stan closed his hand into a fist, and Larnion’s archers, along with three Valkyrie, opened fire on the soldiers in iron. Arrows were lodged into the cracks in their armor, swiftly killing five of the soldiers with strikes to the neck. The two that lived frantically took up their weapons, but two more shots, one from Thresher and one from Kyle himself, brought them down before they could ride back.

            The soldiers’ horses panicked and scattered, half of them running back, bucking off their fallen riders, to the west, while the others disappeared into the hazy swamplands.

            “An excellent illusion, Cleric Token,” Kyle said. “How long will it hold?”

            “It can withstand an hour, should that be needed,” said Token.

            “Sire?” Stan asked Kyle.

            Kyle thought a moment, then said, “Any other soldiers that come forward now, we dispose of from behind the illusion. But the more riderless horses return home, the larger an army we’ll need to deal with upon crossing through.”

            “No reinforcements have been called,” Feldspar reported, his eyes fixed forward as he took in his own illusion’s view. “Their current number is twenty-five, and five ride toward us now.”

            “Thank you, Feldspar,” Kyle said. “Stan?”

            Stan nodded, and signaled for the archers to again be at the ready.

            Once again, the soldiers in spiny iron armor rode forward, once again they saw nothing, and once again Larnion’s archers disposed of them with ease. One horse ran back, and Kyle lit the tip of one of his arrows and shot the horse’s leather saddle, engulfing it in flame.

            “Charge on!” Kyle called back to his army.

            He and Stan followed the horse with the burning saddle first, with Commander Wendy and the Creek leading the rest of the soldiers close behind.

            Another line of western guards had started to ride forward, and collided instantly with the horse with its saddle aflame. The fire spread, burning reins and manes and tails of the other soldiers’ mounts and throwing the western guard into a panic.

            “It’s the Elf King!” one of the western guards warned the others. "On order of the Wizard King, strike to kill!"

            Kyle lit the tip of another arrow, and said, “Your Wizard King is a fool. Have you any idea how hot iron can burn?”

            He shot his flaming arrow into the crack between the guard’s shoulder and chest plates, and the man fell within seconds.

            A quick battle rose in the immediate area, but the western guards were unprepared and fell at the mercy of Larnion’s army and the Valkyrie, with none left standing in iron and no damage done to Kyle and Stan’s troops.

            Stan took stock of the soldiers’ formation, then brought his horse up beside Kyle’s, noting that the staff at Kyle’s back was pulsing with light, as if in time to a heartbeat. “Are you all right, my lord?” Stan asked.

            “I am; and you?”

            “Well indeed. Your staff…”

            “Oh,” Kyle said. He could read it himself. He had never kept it conjured for longer than the span of morning to midday, but he needed it, far from home in a land with so few threads of magic. It was indeed attuned to Kyle’s heartbeat, keeping him connected to the very fabric and pulse of Larnion itself. “I’ll be all right, Stan,” he assured his knight. “I promise. But let’s be quick about this rescue.”

            “Of course, my lord,” Stan said, and he gave his King a reassuring smile.

            Kyle smiled in return, then turned to the Valkyrie. “Nichole,” he said. “Bebe. Clyde. Lead our way toward the Keep. Commander Wendy, your soldiers will be the first to move should we be attacked along our way.”

            “Are the Princesses,” the cleric Token wondered, “truly being held in such a place?”

            “I fear so,” said Kyle. “But you have my word, sir, that on this day you shall have your Princesses back.”

            And unless all hope was truly lost, the real Princess Kenny herself would likely insist upon joining the fight, should it need to continue any longer.

* * *

            When Kyle was twelve, he felt fully ready to preside over Larnion’s capitol harvest festival for the first time. It occurred on the first full moon that marked the peak of the harvest season, and Larnion’s moderate climate yielded several crops and livestock that were traded to the north and south. He played host in the palace courtyard for the first time that year to representatives from every town and village in Larnion, as well as to the royal families from the northern and southern kingdoms and a few representative tradesfolk from each of those two kingdoms as well.

            It was also the first time Kyle had seen Princess Kenny since the battle against the Demon King. Three years had increased her height but downcast her gaze, and throughout the festivities, she tugged at the scarf she wore around the lower half of her face.

            When he could spare a moment, Kyle sought out Leopold, knowing that he was the Princess’s favorite paladin, and said, “I’ve hardly spoken to Princess Kenny all day. Is she cold? There will be bonfires tonight. Please tell her I’m terribly sorry if she’s uncomfortable.”

            “Oh… oh, no, your highness,” said Leopold, eyes widening apologetically. “The Princess is well enough, I assure you. She’s sensitive, is all.”

            “Sensitive?” Kyle asked, curling his nose. “Princess Kenny? I remember her to be headstrong.”

            “That she still is, my lord,” said Leopold. “But…” He lowered his tone and said in confidence, “The battle in the West scarred her, sire. She’s ashamed to show the mark on her face. She means you no offense. I apologize if it seems so, on her behalf.”

            “Oh,” Kyle said, flushing with embarrassment. “Tell her… well, I’ll tell her myself.”

            “Sire, she _is_ sensitive to the fact,” Leopold warned, his words becoming more like a bolt of lightning than a simple gust of wind.

            “I understand,” Kyle said. “I promise not to be direct.”

            Kyle sought out Stan and brought him along for support as he approached the Princess and her sister, where they sat on the palace steps watching the festivities. Kyle sat down beside Princess Kenny and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself, Princess?”

            Kenny gasped and turned to look at him, then smiled with her eyes and looked back out to the courtyard. “Yes,” she said, “it’s a lovely festival.”

            “I think so, too,” Princess Karen echoed. “I’ve never seen so many animals in one place!”

            “Yes, it’s quite the tradition,” Kyle said, smiling for the younger Princess.

            “Will there be dancing?” Princess Karen asked.

            “Oh, yes, for the common folk later, when the fires are lit,” Kyle said.

            “May we dance?” asked Karen. She tugged at Kenny’s dress and wondered, “Sister, will you dance with me?”

            “You know that I would love to, Karen,” Kenny said gently. “But Mother and Father expect great things of me as our nation’s future Queen, and I should… I should be careful of what’s seen of me.”

            “Surely there’s no harm in enjoying a festival?” Kyle said.

            “Well, one never knows,” Kenny said.

            “Your parents can’t be that strict.”

            “No, I just…” Kenny gave her sister an apologetic look, then looked back at Kyle and admitted, “I hope they aren’t ashamed of me.”

            “I can’t imagine why they would be ashamed of you, Princess.”

            “I can.”

            Princess Kenny looked around, then stood and beckoned Kyle to follow her back into the palace. Karen tailed behind, and Kyle walked with Stan after the Princess until they had found a quiet corner inside the palace where Princess Kenny removed her scarf to show the rough red burn mark on the right of her jaw. Despite the blemish, the Princess still had the winsome features her kingdom praised her for in her childhood.

            “There,” Kenny said. “Now you know.”

            Kyle could not imagine how a single burn could be upsetting the Princess so. Was she not a warrior? Kyle knew many soldiers and noble warriors who bore marks of battle with pride. He had seen Princess Kenny charm the warlocks’ forces and make swift work of them when they thought themselves safe in her presence. “Isn’t she beautiful?” her own parents would say at court meetings in the past.

            “It’s only a burn mark,” Kyle said. “Your parents can’t possibly be ashamed of you for fighting for your kingdom, Princess.”

            “It _isn’t_ only a mark,” Kenny insisted. “It’s a hindrance to my gifts. Only nobles, clerics, and paladins in my kingdom have access to the gifts and knowledge of magic, and as this scar mars my beauty so it mars my power. I could have been so much _more,_ but for this.”

            Furious, she dug into a secret pocket of her skirt and drew out a small, flat box. She opened it to reveal, inside, a red crystal. Kyle was sure he had seen it before, even if only in a flash as their allied forces rode into battle. “Look!” Princess Kenny fumed, near tears. “My item of power won’t even shine as it should! It hates me!”

            “No it doesn’t,” Princess Karen tried. “It’s just tired.”

            “Objects don’t get tired!” Princess Kenny retorted. “Objects hold power!”

            “Only if you _believe_ they do,” Princess Karen said, tugging at her sister’s sleeve.

            Kyle and Stan exchanged a subtle look, both instantly aware that this sort of conversation must have transpired between the sisters before. Kyle knew from his studies that objects and relics could amplify humans’ abilities as sorcerers, but he had not yet studied enough about the southern kingdom to understand what was upsetting Princess Kenny so about the crystal in her hand.

            “No,” Princess Kenny said, tearfully putting away her little box. “I ruined it. I was a fool to keep fighting and not think my power would be hindered.”

            “But your parents wouldn’t entrust the future of the entire kingdom to you if they were ashamed of you,” Kyle tried. “No matter how powerful you are.”

            “No! A kingdom's ruler should be _perfect,”_ Kenny said harshly. She tied her scarf back into place and stormed back outside.

            “Is the Princess all right?” Stan wondered.

            “She’s just upset,” Princess Karen explained. “My sister has tried for a long time to be perfect in our parents’ eyes. You’ve done nothing to upset her, she was upset already.”

            “Why strive for perfection?” Kyle wondered. “That’s a bit unrealistic for anyone.”

            Princess Karen cast a look toward the door, then looked up at Kyle and said, wise beyond her current eight years, “Our older brother died some time ago. Kenny used to be in the middle, but now she’s the eldest. She’s always been afraid that our parents hold her to the perceived standards of our older brother. I don’t even remember him, but Kenny does. She used to be so excited about being Queen, but now she keeps comparing herself to our dead brother and the magic he could do because everyone said he was handsome and I don’t think that’s fair. And now that she hides her face, people don’t really know what to say to her sometimes. I think she thinks they don’t find her strong or pretty anymore, but I know that they still do. I think she’s already perfect. I think she’s pretty even if she got burned. I think her magic is only weaker because she's afraid that it should be.”

            “Oh…” Kyle said, hardly voicing the word. “Oh, I feel awful for pressing her. Thank you, Princess. Your sister must have so much on her mind.”

            Princess Karen showed a smile and said, “You did nothing wrong, sire. But I think that all my sister needs is someone on her side. She has me, and she has Leopold, but it’s to be expected.”

            “I understand,” Kyle said. “I’ll speak with her again.”

            Princess Karen gave a small curtsy and left through the door. As they followed, Stan asked Kyle, “Where are the Princesses’ parents? Could you not have a word with them?”

            “I suppose I could,” Kyle said, “but last I tried, they behaved much like our respective councils. I’m still a child to them; hardly a King. I’ll do what I can to be diplomatic with their daughters instead.”

            “They’ll have to respect you someday,” Stan pointed out.

            “Yes,” Kyle said, a bit forlornly, “but until that day comes, I… I’ll just try my best to earn and maintain my allies’ trust. Respect will follow; I need to believe that.”

            Stan thought to say more, but it was a matter for another time.

            When they returned to the steps, Princess Kenny was seated again, this time with Leopold beside her. She rested her head on her paladin’s shoulder and tucked her knees up close to her chest.

            “For all that it’s worth, Princess,” Leopold was saying as Kyle, Stan, and Karen approached, _“I_ think you’re beautiful.”

            “You needn’t flatter me, Leopold,” Kenny said softly.

            “It isn’t flattery, my lady, it’s the truth,” Leopold said.

            Princess Kenny laughed a little. “You still speak like a cleric sometimes,” she said. “You can hold the light of the gods in your hands and yet you speak like a scholar who has only ever studied the stars.”

            “Well, now, Princess,” said Leopold, “why should I try to emulate the gods when all I need is your company?”

            “All right, now you sound like a _bard,”_ Kenny said.

            “Kenny?” Karen asked, stepping forward.

            Kenny lifted her head and turned. Her eyes softened when she saw her sister, and she moved away from Leopold so that Karen could sit between them. Karen whispered something into her sister’s ear, then turned and waved Kyle and Stan closer.

            Kyle sat on Kenny’s opposite side, and Stan sat beside him, and the five of them watched the courtyard as the sun began to set, tinting the horizon in pale autumn shades before the full moon could preside over the sky.

            “I’m sorry I was short with you, my lord,” Kenny said to Kyle. “I envy you at times, you know. Your people seem to love you. Look at this festival. It’s magnificent.”

            “From what I hear,” Kyle offered, “your kingdom adores you as well, Princess. Don’t believe yourself to be anything less than the noble and powerful woman you are.”

            “I’d tell you all to stop flattering me,” Kenny said, resting her chin in one hand, “but I admit I _do_ love compliments.”

            All was silent for a moment, and then Kyle admitted, “I envy you as well, Princess. If you wonder if your parents are proud of you, _ask_ them when you see them. I firmly believe they wouldn’t leave you in charge unless they had full faith in you.”

            Princess Kenny lifted her head again, and looked at Kyle for a moment, her eyes going soft. “My lord, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

            Kyle shook his head. “I didn’t say that to elicit pity,” he said. “I only meant that you are in a position to have important dialogue with your parents about what it means to be a ruler. That’s all.”

            Kenny paused, then nodded, and stood, and smoothed down her skirts before holding out her hands to her sister. As she helped Karen to her feet, Kenny said, “I’ll begin with something simple. Come, Karen, let’s see if Mother and Father won’t let us dance with the common folk when the fires are lit.”

            Lighting up, Karen asked, “Do you mean it?”

            “Of course. We’re guests, after all. We’re here to have fun.”

            Princess Karen smiled, and gave a wave to Kyle and Stan before walking down the steps with Kenny, hand in hand. Leopold rose, and gave Kyle a nod of thanks of his own before following the sisters at a close, protective distance.

            Kyle sighed, and leaned forward onto his knees.

            “Are you all right?” Stan asked him.

            “More or less,” Kyle said. “I simply don’t understand why Princess Kenny holds perfection so highly when it comes to magic. That’s such a dangerous way to think. I consider her a friend, Stan, I’d hate to lose an alliance with her to… to unrealistic expectations. Her sister is right; she’s beautiful burn mark or no, and her people do respect her.”

            “Do you fancy her?” Stan asked.

            “Who?” Kyle wondered.

            “Princess Kenny.”

            “What? No,” Kyle said, sitting up. “I’m glad I’m her friend and not her enemy, but I don’t want to think about any of that yet. All that I meant was that if her beauty is the source of her magic, then she needn’t worry. But if she tries too hard to impress her parents in their former heir’s stead, that… _that_ could be dangerous. It isn’t her job to be the leader she thinks her brother might have been. She’s doing a fine job with her own talents and it should be her parents’ duty to recognize that. ”

            Stan smiled, and said, “All the more reason to remain friendly and diplomatic, then?”

            “Yes, indeed,” Kyle said. “Between the two Princesses, I do believe the southern kingdom to be in good and capable hands for the future.”

            Stan watched as Kyle kept his eyes on the festivities, but saw the way his King clutched one hand over the other in his lap. To ease Kyle’s nerves, Stan set a hand on his back, and complimented him, “Spoken like a true King, Kyle.”

            Kyle gasped, and then let his breath out in a grateful sigh. He unclenched his hands, and thanked his friend, and kept his eyes on the courtyard, hoping indeed for the best in years to come.

* * *

            The war party split into factions now that the Keep was in sight.

            Wendy entrusted Nichole with the command of most of Princess Kenny’s soldiers, while the Commander herself took charge of a group of her own warriors as well as a large number of Larnion’s knights. It was Nichole’s faction who, according to plan, would ride fastest with the Princesses to get them out of danger should they need to be extracted before a larger battle broke out; Commander Wendy would lead her faction to the Keep from the rear of the structure, attacking when most opportune. Token rode with the Creek and with Clyde; given his studies of Zaron’s languages and scripts, the cleric offered himself as a translator should their strategically small scouting group run against traditional warlock runes marking enchanted barriers, or other warning signs. With the Creek as well rode Bebe and two of her Valkyrie sisters gifted in stealth. It was their faction that would observe and guard the grounds around the Keep, and give immediate assistance to the primary faction should it be required.

            Leading the soldiers who would directly storm the Keep were Kyle and Stan together; they would press forward on foot with a moderate number of Stan’s most trusted and talented soldiers. It had been decided that only troops from Larnion would enter the Keep, hopefully giving the illusion to whatever and whomever they found there that Kyle had come west with his army alone. None had been spared from the group of archers who had been guarding the border, so it did not appear as though the Wizard King could have had a single scout left to report back otherwise.

            The remaining faction of Princess Kenny’s soldiers and Stan’s knights stayed back with the squires and riderless horses, ready to set up camp if needed, or to provide additional assistance in battle. Kyle was hopeful, however, that once the Princesses were found, there would be no need to stay in the western kingdom any longer.

            Once the others had gone to their duties, with Feldspar once again conjuring a few doubles to expand his watch, Stan assisted Kyle’s dismount and asked, “Are you ready, my lord?”

            Kyle turned to face the warlocks’ stronghold that lay before them. Somewhere in that stone structure, he told himself, were the two Princesses. “Yes,” he said with resolve. “Let’s end this.”

            Stan signaled to his knights, and their faction marched forward. Stan was half expecting an ambush, but given his run-in with the Wizard King when he was a child, Stan knew of the man’s arrogance and pride. If the Wizard King knew they were coming, he would want to savor the moment for himself.

            The Keep was an ancient structure, made of volcanic stones and choked from base to turrets with years of untended vines. It stood six storeys high, and from its battlements hung standards of grey cloth bearing an ancient human rune from the western script, stitched with the same hasty, spiny points that signified warlocks’ handwriting.

            Two soldiers in iron armor guarded the entrance, and Larnion’s archers brought them down swiftly. Stan tried the doors and found them to be bolted, as would be expected. He searched the fallen guards and found on the belt of one of them a large iron key. Stan fitted it to the door of the keep, and the lock groaned and gave.

            “This is too easy,” he said to Kyle. “I don’t like this.”

            “Nor do I,” Kyle said. “But we must press on and be prepared for anything.”

            “Of course,” Stan agreed.

            Stan nodded back to the other soldiers for backup, and drew his own sword, tucking the key to the Keep into his belt as a precaution. The other soldiers took up their bows, swords, and lances, and Kyle drew forth his staff. Kyle drew in a deep breath, and the staff’s gleam seemed to shift from a pulse to a steady glow.

            “Sir Stanley,” Kyle instructed, loud enough for all in his battalion to hear, “please open the gate.”

            Stan set his hands on the large hinges that would open the doors, and proclaimed, “For Larnion.”

            He pushed open the doors, and they swung inward. Stan held up his sword at the ready, but no army came charging. The Keep opened into a dark, cavernous grand hall. Stan signaled his soldiers forward, and Kyle walked at Stan’s side, the light from his staff guiding them onward. Their footsteps echoed through the vast room; Kyle touched a hand to Stan’s arm for reassurance as they continued.

            Several steps in, a tapping could be heard, as of a staff on the stone floor. It was slow, methodical. They were most certainly not alone.

            “Well, well, well,” said a smug voice from the darkness. “If it isn’t the High King of Larnion. What a pleasure.”

            The torches on the walls of the Keep burst not with flame, then, but with sickly green orbs of light, casting dizzying shadows across the floor. Kyle and Stan held their ground, and Kyle reached his staff out behind him to stop the rest of the soldiers from advancing too soon.

            At the back of the grand hall was an elevated stone platform, upon which was a massive throne. Seated on the throne was the man who had declared himself the Wizard King long ago. He was a large man, dressed entirely in black and silver, with a long brown beard and a menacing glare. On his head was an old, once pointed hat, and in his right hand was a tall wooden staff.

            All of the magic users in the west were formidable, and this one was not their King for nothing. He had returned from exile, captured not one of the southern Princesses but both, and flung the land of Zaron into chaos by cursing the paladin Leopold’s hammer and mounting a calculated attack against Larnion.

            “You’ve slain my dragon,” he said, drumming the fingers of his free hand on one arm of his throne. “Impressive, if not probable.”

            “Enough, Wizard,” Kyle snapped. “We’ve seen through your plan. Did you think you could mock me? Do you think I’m stupid?”

            “No,” said the Wizard King with a grin. “I think your council is.”

            Kyle drew in and let out a deep, angry breath, but did not let himself ignite.

            The Wizard King stood, and Kyle heard the soldiers behind him and Stan take aim with their weapons.

            “Hold,” Stan ordered them.

            “I know everything about your kingdoms,” the Wizard King said, not taking a step. “I’ve waited ten years for this, but I _will_ take everything that I want. I simply need to knock down your barrier, and all of Zaron will be mine.”

            This time, Stan held forth his sword. “You’re surrounded,” Stan warned. “Your guards are slain. Tell us where the Princesses are, and this will not come to war.”

            “What an arrogant knight,” said the Wizard King. “Someone like you can’t declare war.”

            “His words,” Kyle said, “and mine are the same on the matter. Tell us where the Princesses are. Or I burn you to a crisp right here and now.”

            “Careful, elf,” said the Wizard King. “I know your weakness.”

            “You still think you can use that against me?” Kyle said. “I’ve made peace with it. I embrace it. I don’t think it’s a weakness at all.”

            “So be it,” said the Wizard, his tone growing ever darker. “I’ll just need to find a new one.”

            In the blink of an eye, the Wizard raised his staff and struck it out in Stan’s direction. Before Stan could counter, a pulse from the Wizard’s weapon had thrown Stan hard against the wall.

            “Stan!” Kyle cried out.

            “Found it,” the Wizard said.

            “Move out!” Kyle shouted to the soldiers. Arrows flew, and those with swords rushed forward, but Kyle kept his eyes on his opponent, gathered a ball of flame into one hand, and shot it at the Wizard King.

            The Wizard dodged and swept out with his staff again, sending out another pulse through the air that knocked the soldiers back and out of the way. Kyle held out his own staff to keep his footing, and glanced to his side when the pulse had subsided to see that Stan was picking himself back up, using his sword for assistance as he got back on his feet. His armor was scuffed, but nothing was broken, and he was not bleeding.

            “Is this the best Larnion can offer?” the Wizard King mocked. He pounded his staff on the ground and a pulse shot through the floor, rattling the very stones of the foundation. Stan lost his footing and the Wizard King instantly swept out his staff to throw Stan back again. “Pathetic.”

            “I warned you!” Kyle shouted. He set away his staff and drew two arrows from his quiver, quickly fitted them to his bow, and lit the tips.

            “If you kill me, you’ll never find the Princesses,” the Wizard King said.

            “I believe the spirits are on my side,” Kyle said, “and not a word you say.”

            He let his flaming arrows fly, and they struck true to the Wizard King’s chest, but the warlock disappeared before the tips could touch even the fabric of his robe. Kyle cursed under his breath as his arrows clattered to the ground and the flames extinguished, and he immediately turned and rushed back toward Stan, who was being helped to his feet by two of his soldiers.

            “Are you all right?” Kyle checked with Stan.

            “Shaken, but I’m fine,” Stan assured him. Blood trickled down from underneath the armored plate on his right shoulder, and Kyle whispered a quick wish for the blood flow to stop. The magic was thin in the west, but as Kyle was carrying his staff, it obeyed. “Thank you,” Stan said.

            “Of course. Can you fight on?”

            “Until the battle is won,” Stan promised.

            Kyle let out a short sigh of relief, and kissed Stan’s cheek, and then the two turned to survey their options. Kyle helped Stan find his balance as they looked about the hall, still lit with pale green orbs. “Fan out,” Stan instructed the soldiers. “There must be stairs or other passageways. Do not trust for a moment that the Wizard is not at your heels.”

            The soldiers saluted and went to their work, and Kyle retrieved the two fallen arrows he’d shot while assessing the area around the Wizard King’s throne. There seemed to be no traps of any sort, but he did not trust the warlocks to build a Keep without mechanisms to ensure its safety. The hall, however, did appear to be empty.

            Suddenly, a whisper of wind rushed around them, and in a flash a half-opaque conjuring of Feldspar appeared before them. “How have you fared, sire?” Feldspar asked through the double.

            “We’ve found the Wizard King only to lose sight of him again,” Kyle answered. “Stan and a few of our soldiers are wounded, but…”

            “I’m all right,” Stan assured Kyle and Feldspar both. “What news from outside?”

            “The Valkyrie have engaged in combat under Commander Wendy. My faction is assessing weak points and exits. You haven’t seen the last of me.” Feldspar paused. “Unless I am struck down.”

            “That’s sure not to happen,” Kyle said with confidence. “Thank you, Feldspar. Should you find either of the Princesses, please inform us right away.”

            “Of course, sire.” Feldspar’s double nodded, then vanished.

            “Your highness!” one of Stan’s knights called from the furthest corner of the room.

            “Yes?” Kyle asked.

            The knight ran forward, saluted to Stan, and then bowed to Kyle before saying, “We have discovered a set of stairs, sire. The rest of the hall seems to be devoid of doors or other egresses. Shall we continue upward, my lord? Sir?” he then asked of Stan.

            “Good work,” Stan said. “Continue upward, and lead the rest with you. Take a team and search for still more egresses to the top of the Keep. I’ve a feeling the Wizard wants us on a hunt to wear us down. Inform us the moment you spot anything suspicious or that could be in any way helpful. The King and I will follow.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            The soldier left, and Stan and Kyle moved to follow him, but Stan did wince as he walked, disheartened to find that the blows from the Wizard King’s attacks had affected his stamina and clearly left bruising. “Are you sure you’re well?” Kyle asked.

            “I’m injured, but it’s nothing serious,” Stan said. “I’m not leaving your side.”

            Kyle smiled, but kept a cautious hold of Stan’s arm as they moved to follow the soldiers up the steep stone steps to the second level of the Keep. Light grew scarce, so Kyle held out his left palm, conjuring in it a small bit of flame to illuminate what lay ahead. Cobwebs glistened above, and ivy strangled the stones of the Keep’s foundation. Kyle examined the structure, discovering that the thin threads running through it were terribly frayed. The stones themselves were so overgrown with the untended ropes of ivy that it would not take much to bring the entire building down.

            “Stan,” he whispered, “I think I have an idea. Did you see how the hall downstairs was lit with conjured light, and not flame?”

            “I did, yes.”

            “I’ve reason to believe the warlocks avoid flame for a reason,” Kyle said. “This place is overgrown and would so easily burn. The moment the Princess are freed, have your soldiers attack this building with everything they have. We bring the entire place down with steel and fire.”

            “Will that be enough?” Stan asked, similarly in a hushed tone.

            “I believe it will, and we could very well destroy the Wizard King himself if we time the collapse correctly.”

            Stan nodded. “Then that is precisely what we’ll do,” he agreed. “When next we see one of Feldspar’s conjures, I’ll spread the word.”

            The second storey opened into a cavernous hall, with seemingly nothing furnishing or otherwise filling it. Stan ordered most of his soldiers to continue upward, but waved two to follow him and Kyle further into the scarcely-lit floor. Kyle snuffed out the flame he had conjured and relied best he could on his Sight to lead the others onward.

            Stan’s own Sight was diminished greatly due to the weakened natural magic in the West, but his proximity to Kyle and the staff of his elven ancestors aided Stan’s abilities somewhat. Just as Stan had observed as a child, enchanted items were indeed the greatest source of magic in the western kingdom.

            The large hall ended almost abruptly at a large wooden door. Stan halted the soldiers and ordered them to remain back as he tried to pull the door open. It was bolted, but the wood was old, and groaned as if to give.

            “Should we move on, Sir?” one of the soldiers asked.

            Stan examined the door and its rusty hinges. Ivy gripped the walls around it, but did not seal shut the door itself. “No,” he said. “Someone’s been using this room. I’m going to break the door down.”

            “Stan, no,” Kyle said. “You’re injured. It’s wood, I’ll burn it.”

            “We don’t know what’s on the other side,” Stan said. “For all we know, it could be highly flammable. I’ll be all right.” When Kyle still looked hesitant, Stan added, “I promise.”

            Kyle took a steeling breath, and nodded. He held aloft his staff and whispered a short spell to illuminate it, lighting the area around the door.

            Grateful for the added light, Stan studied the door and felt at its edges for fractures or soft patches of wood that might easily give. It was indeed old and weak, and the wood around the hinges was beginning to rot. Stan gathered himself, ignored his injuries, and dealt a hard kick to the rotting planks of the door. The door splintered and began to bend inward, and with another kick, a great deal of it crumbled away. Stan took up his sword to cut down the rest of it, and carefully stepped through the opening to find on the other side a better lit, circular room.

            Stan ordered the soldiers to remain at the door, while he and Kyle cautiously walked into the room, Stan not releasing his grip on his sword. Kyle tucked away his staff, in the same harness at his back that held his longbow, and took hold of the grip of his own sword instead.

            The room once again was covered in neglected overgrowth, and was illuminated with orbs of pale yellow light lining the walls, in place of torches and flame. There were no other doors or windows to speak of, but at the very center of the circular room sat a large, domed cage, its gilded bars just far enough apart to render a person unable to walk through.

            And there in the cage lay Princess Kenny.

            Her rose-colored dress was dirty and tattered, her shoes were gone, her golden hair was matted and tied in a long, hasty braid that swept the small of her back. A cloth gag was tied around her mouth, and there were shackles at her wrists and ankles.

            “Oh, gods and spirits,” Stan said under his breath.

            “Princess Kenny!” Kyle called out.

            Stiffly, the true Princess stirred and lifted her head. She sat up as best she was able, and her bright blue eyes widened upon seeing the two. She looked hopeful for a moment, then began shouting something into her gag that neither Stan nor Kyle could comprehend, but her panic was enough to make them turn.

            Out from the moss and ivy that covered the walls appeared two bright yellow eyes. Vines snapped as an enormous green dragon that had been camouflaged among the natural growth slunk away from the wall and curled itself around the cage in the middle of the room. Tears fell swiftly from the Princess’s eyes and she muffled curses into her gag and pulled at the shackles on her wrists to no avail.

            The dragon fixed its gleaming eyes on the King and his knight and let out a piercing screech of a roar. It had no wings to speak of but its spine was covered in thorny, barbed spikes. Tied around the dragon’s neck was a ring of keys.

            “An earth elemental?” Kyle guessed. “Why do such a thing if plants can also be easily destroyed by flame? I _am_ being mocked!”

            Princess Kenny lifted her head and looked directly at Kyle as she cried out a warning into her gag. She tried to bite through the cloth, and then, upon failing and failing again, simply shouted out the words best she could, and again as the dragon lifted its head and opened its mouth to prepare an attack.

            Four distinct sounds from Princess Kenny, and on her final try, Stan was able to piece the words together. “It’s venomous?” he translated.

            Princess Kenny frantically nodded.

            “It’s venomous!” Stan cried out. “Kyle, get down!”

            The dragon spat a congealed mass of a mossy discharge from its mouth, and Stan and Kyle darted out of the way of the attack in opposite directions just in time. Kyle let his hands ignite with fire, but the Princess’s cage was directly in the range of his best shot at the dragon’s head. The room was large enough to house the dragon, but small enough to make even the slightest wrong move topple the entire structure, or severely harm the Princess at the room’s direct center.

            Stan was able to keep his feet, but the wounds he had already sustained from the Wizard King’s brutal brunt force attack caused him to need an extra moment to steady himself. He surveyed the dragon, searching for weak points. The barbed spikes appeared brittle and potentially vital points to strike, but they would most likely be deadly should they scratch a human’s skin.

            Stan looked to Kyle, and the two shared a worried glance for a moment before Kyle drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it to his bow, and lit the tip. Princess Kenny noticed, and made herself small before Kyle shot the arrow clean through the crossed bars of the cage, hitting the dragon in the neck.

            The dragon let out a screech and thrashed its barbed tail, but Kyle was too far back to be hit by the attempted attack. The flame from the arrow singed the dragon’s moss-covered scales and left a charred patch behind.

            “Good,” Kyle declared. “This one, too, will burn. Stan!”

            “Yes, sire?”

            “Can you make your way back to me?”

            “I can try.”

            Princess Kenny looked on in both hope and horror as Stan tried to keep in the dragon’s blind spot enough to cross the room again. The dragon reared back its head to prepare another attack, and Stan timed his sprint to the moment the dragon spewed another congealed mass in the direction Stan had been. When Stan was out of the way and the dragon was resting for a moment after its attack, Kyle lit the tips of two more arrows and shot at the dragon again, hitting the spines at the back of its head.

            The dragon roared and turned its head away, clawing at the stuck, burning arrows in an attempt to relieve the discomfort. Princess Kenny drew a gasp, and Kyle took that moment to shoot another two arrows at the dragon’s back. The dragon let out another scream of a roar and stumbled, spewing moss in the first direction it faced, which fortunately was the far opposite wall.

            “Do you have a plan?” Stan asked Kyle.

            “I believe so,” Kyle said. “But if the entire body is toxic, as I’m sure it must be, that leaves the issue of the keys. I’m going to try to shoot them off and send one of our soldiers in to claim them, but, and I so hate to ask this of you, I’ll need you at close range should the dragon choose to attack.”

            “Close range?” Stan said. “I can do that. But…”

            Kyle showed a proud smile, and gently held his left hand over Stan’s right, where it gripped his sword. Kyle then moved his hand to the blade, and the staff at Kyle’s back gleamed brighter for an instant as, without so much as an invocation, the blade of Stan’s sword once again welcomed the gift of Kyle’s flame.

            Stan gasped and took a step back, admiring the product of the rekindled magic. “How…?” he began.

            “So long as we fight together, Stan,” Kyle said, “your sword will hold the memory of its bond to flame, and it possesses the ability to ignite. In that way, we fight as one.”

            Stan felt himself at a loss for words, so full of astonishment for the feat and so full of pride in Kyle’s abilities and ingenuity; quite forgetting that the Princess and others were there, he responded to Kyle’s declaration with a kiss to Kyle’s cheek. When he drew back, Stan said, “Thank you.” Echoing Kyle’s words, he added, “We fight as one.”

            Kyle smiled again, glad to see that the invocation had indeed held, and so well, and then the two turned back to the battle at hand.

            The dragon’s back hissed with smoke from the dead flames of the arrows still stuck into its scales. It stumbled somewhat, but turned its head around again to face the King and his knight. Princess Kenny let out a cry to warn them, but the two were prepared.

            “Princess, get down,” Kyle warned, and she did. “Stan, on my shot.”

            “Right,” Stan agreed, and signaled to one of the other soldiers to be close behind him.

            Kyle drew three arrows, lit the tips, and let them fly, aiming for more of the barbed spikes on the back of the dragon’s neck. All three hit, and when the dragon recoiled in pain, Stan rushed toward it with the other soldier following.

            “As soon as the King shoots down the keys,” Stan instructed the other knight, “take them and get to safety.”

            “Yes, Sir,” the knight agreed. “Will you be all right without aid, Sir? What will you do?”

            “I’ll be fine,” Stan said. “And I suppose I’ll assist in the slaying of yet another dragon.”

            As though it had heard, the dragon let out another screaming roar and, ignoring its burning neck, backed up in order to lower its head to Stan and the other knight and spew out another venomous mass from its mouth. The two dodged, but Stan stayed as close as he dared, ignoring the strain set on from his injuries and thrusting his flaming sword into the hinge of the dragon’s jaw.

            He pulled the sword out again just in time as the dragon recoiled, and as it did, Kyle let fly a single arrow, which lodged into the dragon’s neck, and then another, which found its mark and split clean through the rope around it, holding the ring of keys in place. Stan backed up to survey the damage he’d done to the dragon—as expected, the scales were badly charred, and seemed to have locked the dragon’s jaw in place.

            The ring of keys fell to the ground, and the Larnion soldier under Stan’s command rushed forward to take them up and run them back to Kyle, who had already fitted his bow with two more arrows. From the door, the second soldier who had journeyed in with them notched his own bow as well, and had his arrow trained on one of the dragon’s eyes.

            The dragon pawed at its face as though to unlock its jaw, but to no avail. The spines on its back began to tremble, and it coughed out three successive masses of the venomous moss. When Stan dodged, it put him well on the opposite side of the room from his King, but he trusted that Kyle’s attacks would land as they needed to. The dragon let out another shriek of a roar, at the same time the Princess emitted a warning cry, and Stan heard Kyle call out, “Get down!” as the dragon emitted another attack.

            While its head was turned, Stan made his move and stabbed his sword into the dragon’s side, and held it there as long as he dared, the enchanted flames burning up the softer skin of the beast’s underbelly and rising against the harder scales besides. On its next roar, Kyle shot at the spines on its back, and then directly into the dragon’s mouth. The dragon collapsed, and Stan quickly drew back his sword and rushed around to its front, and when the head came down, Stan drove his sword between the dragon’s eyes to ensure that it would not get back up.

            Stan recovered his sword and stepped back, closer and closer to his King and the other soldiers, keeping his sword at the ready, but the dragon did not rise. From inside the cage, Princess Kenny slowly picked her own head up, then looked back at the others with tears in her bright blue eyes.

            “It’s done,” Kyle declared. “Thank you, Stan.”

            “The victory is shared,” Stan said, adding for the benefit of the others, “my lord.”

            Kyle let out a sigh of relief and set away his bow, then gestured for Stan to hold out his sword. Stan did, and Kyle examined it for a moment before the flames receded. “As I had hoped,” Kyle said gratefully. “The flames have burned away any trace of the dragon’s blood. It should be safe to the touch.”

            “Sir,” one of the other knights offered, “if you would allow me…”

            Stan shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask anyone to risk their life on the off chance it retains any venom,” he said. “Besides, I trust the King’s analysis.” And to prove it, Stan examined his own blade, seeing no trace of blood whatsoever, and touched one hand to the side of the steel. It was cool to the touch, and indeed devoid of any other substance, venomous or not.

            Stan and Kyle exchanged a proud glance, and then Stan sheathed his sword and turned to the knight with the keys.

            “Thank you for your bravery and commitment to the cause,” Stan said to the soldier. “Please keep watch until the King and I have the Princess back on her feet.”

            “Of course, Sir,” the soldier said, handing the keys to his Captain.

            Stan nodded another thanks, then took the ring and walked by Kyle’s side to the cage in which the Princess was being held. Stan tried the lock three times before finding the correct key, and one the door was opened, he walked in and knelt, sifting again through the keys on the ring until he found the one that would fit the Princess’s shackles. Carefully, he unlocked the restraints on her ankles, and then her wrists. The skin was irritated from the iron clasps, but it was nothing that would not heal. Shaking, the Princess rubbed at her wrists, and then, tears falling from her eyes, she reached up and untied her own gag.

            The Princess tossed the gag aside and immediately covered her face and began sobbing. Stan looked up at Kyle, neither entirely sure what to do or how to proceed, but both silently agreed to give the Princess whatever time she needed to recover from the horrors she must have been faced with since her capture.

            Cautiously, Stan set a hand on the Princess’s back, and she curled further into herself, as though trying to hide the fact that she was crying at all. When she had finally calmed her tears a little, the Princess looked at Stan, then up at Kyle. Her face first paled, and then flushed with color.

            Princess Kenny rose and stumbled. Her bare feet were scuffed and a little bloody, but she paid the damage no mind. “Your highness, you saved me!” she cried out, tripping forward and falling into Kyle’s arms.

            Kyle caught her carefully, and noticed first and foremost that she was trembling. She was not cold to the touch as her double had been, but she felt light and brittle from not having eaten properly since being captured by the warlocks. “I… well,” said Kyle, lightly patting her back. “Myself and my knight.”

            “Yes,” Kenny said, weeping. “Thank you both.”

            As the Princess wept in Kyle’s arms, and Kyle in turn gently held her upright, Stan felt his heart sink somewhat. He had been so elated and encouraged by what he and Kyle had found, that he had not given quite as much thought to what should happen if he should lose it. There was still a very real possibility of the Princess holding to her request for engagement, and of the councils intervening. Even if it wasn’t the Princess, it would be someone else, Stan thought. Kyle was King; he would marry someone fitting of his station. Perhaps, Stan thought, they could continue on as lovers in secret, but even that could become too painful.

            Stan shook the notions aside and stood. Now was no time to be thinking of such things. After all, the Princess had been found, though she was ailing. Stan was not feeling at full strength himself. And there was still Princess Karen to find, and the Wizard King to defeat. All else would need to wait.

            When the Princess began drying her tears, she stood back somewhat.

            “Can you stand on your own?” Kyle asked her.

            “I may need a moment,” Kenny admitted.

            “If you don’t mind my asking,” Kyle said, “how long is it that you have been held captive here?”

            “Oh, your highness, it must be a full year by now,” Kenny lamented. “Quite possibly longer, though I’ve so seldom seen the sun since that horrible man brought me here.” From the length of her hair, Kyle realized, it certainly seemed that a year or longer was accurate; it had also been roughly that span of time since Kyle had begun to notice the change in the ‘Princess’ and her paladin. “My sister has been here even longer.”

            She looked around, and asked, “Where is my sister? Have you found her? Tell me she’s safe.”

            “We haven’t freed her yet, Princess,” Kyle said. “I have reason to believe she’s being kept further above. We have already once stood against the Wizard King, and no doubt we will see him again before we find her.”

            Kenny’s eyes narrowed. “Get me a bow,” she said.

            “Princess, you probably shouldn’t fight—”

            “Get me a bow,” Kenny insisted.

            Stan signaled to one of his soldiers, who brought forth a shortbow and a quiver of arrows. Kenny, still swaying on her feet, kept her hands sturdy as she donned the quiver and tested out the bow. She fitted an arrow to it and let it fly to the ceiling, as though that alone could signal to the Wizard King that she was coming to free her sister.

            “Good,” said the Princess. “This will do.”

            “Princess…” Kyle tried to protest again.

            “Give me this, your highness,” Kenny asked. “Let me save my sister. She has been captured for far too long.”

            “Of course, Princess,” Kyle said, though he remained cautious and would be informing his soldiers to keep an eye on her health. “I understand.”

            “Thank you,” Princess Kenny said with a bit of a sigh. She glanced at Stan, then at the other soldiers, and then back at Kyle. “Where is my paladin?” she wondered. “Is he with you? Have our kingdoms joined forces?” She went pale again. “Oh, your highness, tell me you did not—”

            Kyle held a hand up to stop her from asking the worst. “There is much to be explained,” he said, “but it can all wait until the battle is done. I regret to inform you that your paladin is… quite incapacitated at the moment, and being held for acts of treason back in Larnion.”

            “Treason? My Leopold?” Kenny asked in horror. She cried out and clutched her chest with one hand. “What has he done? What has happened since I’ve been gone? Your highness, _please…”_

            “I promise to let you know everything, as soon as possible,” Kyle said. “But for now, we must find your sister and defeat the Wizard King. Soldiers from both of our kingdoms are here for the cause, as well as the Valkyrie.”

            Kenny’s eyes widened. “The Valkyrie…” she said in a whisper. She shook her head. “I have so much to say,” she said. “I’m afraid I have done so much wrong.”

            “Then make it right, Princess,” Kyle encouraged her.

            Princess Kenny drew a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “And before anything, I must save my sister.”

            “If you have found your feet, my lady,” Stan said, approaching with caution, “my soldiers are prepared to lead us on.”

            At last, Princess Kenny showed a smile for him. She set a hand on his shoulder and said, “Sir Stanley. You have always been so forthright and true. Thank you for your hand in my rescue. Larnion is in good hands with you as its Captain. As is your King.”

            Well, Stan thought, perhaps he needn’t worry much about the Princess after all.

            “That is very kind of you to say, my lady. Thank you,” Stan said, all but breathing a sigh of relief with the knowledge that this was indeed the true Princess, and not the one who had been so hateful toward him before he had set out on his quest.

            “Shall we?” Kyle asked.

            Princess Kenny gathered herself. She smoothed back her matted hair, held tightly to her bow, and drew a new arrow in anticipation. “Yes,” she said. “Lead on.”

            With that, Stan signaled to his soldiers to lead the way, and he and Kyle flanked their newly rescued ally as they made their way to the next egress—toward Princess Karen, and toward what was to be Larnion’s final battle with the Wizard King of western Zaron.

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I’m so sorry for the radio silence between chapters. I was hit with a very busy several weeks. Also, I’ve had so much of this planned out but when it came down to it, I chose to split what would have been a terribly long chapter into two, so the new chapter count for the entire story is now 18, and may extend to 19 depending on what is yet to come. I do have much more of a buffer in place now, so after Chapter XV goes up, there shouldn't be too long a wait between then and the end. I am participating in NaNoWriMo next month to work out a new story, but hopefully it shouldn’t interrupt the flow of chapters since I’ve been working on buffers for both. I'll do my best to keep you posted with updates on my Tumblr. Thank you so much for your patience and for your support of this story!!
> 
> As an additional note, this chapter and the next definitely have the most ‘video game’ aspect to them, which is purposeful, given the subject matter, haha. The trickiest thing to sort out has been how to translate the Black Friday trilogy canon of ‘Princess Kenny’s power is being cute’ into this world (her ‘item of power’ is the substitute for the ‘lovely item’ the PlayStation guy gives her), but I’m happy with how it ended up, with more on that to come in the next chapter as well. See you for the final battle!


	15. XV. The Final Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kyle, Stan, and Princess Kenny lead the final battle against the Wizard King, to determine the fate of the land of Zaron.

            One of Stan’s soldiers led the party and the other brought up the rear as Stan and Kyle walked with Princess Kenny to each new floor of the Keep. The building appeared altogether abandoned, as each egress led the party into disused dining halls and strategy rooms; at six storeys tall, with no decrease in ceiling height from one to the next, the fortress clearly had once been a formidable and active military capitol tower. The disarray and dust throughout each echoing room, complimented with the vine-choked walls, led Kyle further to his hypothesis that the building would be its own undoing. He was surprised that a strong gust of wind had not knocked the place over yet—a single strike from a battering ram might easily be enough to destroy the warlocks’ stronghold for good.

            Still, all remained vigilant. Conversations were kept to whispers, but as they crossed through the empty halls of the fourth storey of the Keep, Princess Kenny began to speak more. She tottered on her feet, and Kyle began to wonder if the Princess was being so talkative simply to keep herself from losing consciousness. She would, here and there, accept assistance from both Kyle and Stan to keep her feet, but with each step, she tried to build back her strength, holding her chin up best she could.

            “My sister is strong,” Princess Kenny said as the three walked on with their guards to find the next set of stairs. “She must be well. I know that I would feel it in my heart if she were not.”

            “I’m sure that the young Princess is well, and waiting for you,” Stan offered.

            “Yes.” Princess Kenny smiled up at him, then looked straight forward again. “You are warriors both,” she continued. “You must understand. Karen has the same calling… the drive to fight with honor, the need to help those who cannot defend themselves, the need to be there at one’s kingdom’s beck and call, no matter the obstacle.”

            “Of course,” Stan said.

            “I understand,” said Kyle.

            “Karen felt it,” Kenny went on, smiling a little. “I have always supported her, but there was only so much I could teach her in the ways of the bow. We’ve friends and allies in the Valkyrie. How could I say no to her when she expressed her wish to train with them? How could I ever say no to my little sister…?”

            Tears clouded Kenny’s eyes, and she faltered in her steps. Stan and Kyle caught her on either side, and the Princess thanked them, but did not stop to rest. Pressing on, she continued speaking: “Four years, the training would take. Her tutors were the finest the Valkyrie could offer. After only one year, correspondence became more scarce, and all the while, our kingdom seemed to run up against troubles. As though it knew. As though it mourned her. I didn’t see it. I couldn’t fathom the idea.

            “And then the day came… a message from the west. A ransom note. My little sister, taken…”

            They had reached a staircase, and after Stan’s soldier called down that the path was clear, the three moved on and upward to the fifth storey. Kenny’s grip on her borrowed bow and arrow tightened until her knuckles were white. Her blue eyes still were cloudy with tears and regret, but she no longer swayed in her step.

            “The Valkyrie scout, Bebe, charged with my sister’s tutelage, arrived ten minutes too late to be the first to deliver the news of Karen’s capture,” Kenny said. Anger rose in her tone, but aimed toward the situation, not at the Valkyrie. “I advised her to keep the matter quiet. I sent Leopold to negotiate with the warlocks; no need to involve nor bring possible shame to the Valkyrie until all other roads to an agreement could be attempted. Oh, Leopold…”

            Before any more could be said, a rustling of wind came from a space ahead, and seconds later, a conjure of Feldspar’s materialized in the dimly lit, empty hall. The Princess gasped, and readied her bow, but Kyle gently held up a hand to stop her from firing at the illusion of an ally. “Feldspar,” Kyle said. “What news?”

            “Our faction has scaled the Keep from the outside,” said Feldspar’s double, “and await your arrival on the roof. Another of my shadows has eyes on our surroundings below, where Commander Wendy’s troops below are engaged in combat with western forces. None have broken through to the Keep yet.”

            “Do you have eyes on the enemy?” asked Stan.

            “We do, Sir,” said Feldspar. “Princess Kenny,” he added, “it’s good to see you’re well. We have eyes on her highness, your sister, too.”

            The Princess blinked out her tears, but could not formulate a response. Very faintly, however, she showed a smile.

            “Thank you, Feldspar,” Kyle said. “Stay vigilant. We’ll be joining you shortly. And it is of utmost importance that I tell you,” he added, “it may be in our best interests to bring the entire structure down, once the Princesses are safe. It will at very least buy us enough time to ensure their return, if not to end this before we find ourselves fully at war.”

            “You’ve noticed it, too?” said Feldspar. “This place is half crumbling as it stands.”

            “All the more reason,” said Stan, “to finish this quickly and be gone.”

            Feldspar nodded. “We’ll make no moves of our own just yet, for the young Princess’s sake,” he said. “We are hidden by another of the cleric’s illusory shields for the time being. On your signal, Sir, your highness… we will strike.”

            Kyle thanked him again, then said, “Have Thresher and any other archers in your number keep a steady eye on our opponent. Strike if you must before we meet.”

            “The Valkyrie Nichole is with us and armed with a bow; I’ll keep her standing by as an archer, but her primary mission is to bring Princess Karen to safety,” Feldspar said.

            “Let her hold to her task for the Princess,” Kyle said, “and be armed besides. We must be prepared for anything.”

            “Of course, sire,” said Feldspar, and then the illusion was gone.

            Kyle and Stan steeled themselves, checked to assure that the Princess was well enough to continue on, and walked the length of the topmost storey of the Keep in silence.

            When they stood at the doorway to the final set of stairs that would lead them to the roof, Kyle paused, and looked into the blackness of the egress. His heart pounded as memories flooded in, and felt heavy with grief. True, Kyle had never set foot in that stronghold before, but he had been on western lands ten years prior, when the deaths of his parents still felt like such a shock to him. He had led in his army to destroy the Stick of Truth and bring the Demon King to justice once, and here they stood yet again. Ten years older, ten years stronger. Laden with ten years of mourning for those who were lost.

            Were his parents’ spirits truly at peace, Kyle now wondered, if the fight had not ended? He closed his eyes and tuned his mind into the energy emanating from the staff of his ancestors, which had given him the strength to end the battle in the past; it was the light and the strength of Larnion, and he was its keeper. No dark magic could enter Larnion or therefore the other lands uninvited. It was Kyle’s duty to keep his kingdom and his allies safe from the worst kind of destruction.

            He let himself feel that grief again, as he had as a child, and swore to himself that no one in Larnion nor among its allied lands would grieve in the wake of this battle. Kyle had chosen to banish the Wizard King ten years prior, to keep the enemy far away; he knew now that the foe must be vanquished, once and for all, if peace was to be upheld.

            “Are you ready, sire?” Stan asked from beside him.

            Kyle turned to look at him, and smiled, as he felt love balance his residual grief and keep him level-headed and secure. “Yes. We win this together,” he said to his knight. “I’m so glad to have you by my side, Stan.”

            “And I you,” Stan said.

            Kyle smiled again, drew a deep breath, and stepped forward.

* * *

            On the day after his war party had returned from the battle against the Demon King, Kyle refused to get out of bed. He ordered his curtains drawn, and shut his eyes in the darkness, burrowing into his pillow and dreading the day. He was nearly ten years old, and his world had been shaken and broken beyond repair. And now he was King. Moving out of wartime, he would not have absolute power, and he did not know what would come next.

            When after two hours Kyle would not move out of bed or be spoken to, Stan entered the bedchamber. Stan did not say a word, but he took the chair from Kyle’s desk and brought it over to Kyle’s bedside, where Stan sat, and said nothing. Knowing that Stan was there calmed Kyle somewhat, and Kyle began to cry.

            Stan reached out a hand and placed it on Kyle’s back, and there they sat in silence a while longer. Kyle sobbed quietly until grief overtook him, and he covered his face with his hands and curled into himself, shaking and letting out an anguished wail. “It isn’t fair,” Kyle choked out.

            “No,” Stan agreed, rubbing Kyle’s back. “I know…”

            “I miss them,” Kyle cried. “It isn’t fair.” Kyle sobbed for a minute more, then turned to face Stan and said, “I didn’t kill him. Should I have killed him? I didn’t want to. I feel so unwell, Stan, did I do the right thing?”

            “Didn’t kill who?” Stan asked.

            “The boy,” Kyle said. “The boy the Demon King possessed. He took my parents away and I didn’t kill him. Was that wrong?”

            “Well,” Stan said, “you must have done what you thought was right, Kyle. If you thought in that moment that he deserved mercy, then I’m sure he did. I think they… I think they would be proud of you.”

            Kyle choked, and cried out a few more tears, then gathered his breath and said, “Mother told me that when I became King, I would need to make difficult decisions. I didn’t expect this to be one of them. Not so soon.”

            “I know,” Stan said sympathetically.

            “I’m sorry,” Kyle said.

            “You needn’t apologize for anything, Kyle,” Stan said in return.

            “You could have gotten hurt, too,” Kyle insisted remorsefully.

            “I am a knight,” Stan said, weighing each word. “I’m prepared for all manner of battle, to protect you and all of Larnion.”

            Kyle sniffed to hold back his tears. “Yes,” he said, his voice raw from crying. “You are a knight.” He managed to smile a little, but it faded quickly. “And I am King,” Kyle said numbly.

            “You’ll be a good King, Kyle,” Stan assured him, and held out a hand.

            Kyle took Stan’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’m not ready,” Kyle said.

            “It’s all right. It will be all right. I’m here. And you have plenty of time until you have full reign,” Stan said. “We’ll keep learning, together.”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, and closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath, then opened his eyes again and asked, “Stan?”

            “Yes, Kyle?”

            “Be my bodyguard?” Kyle requested. “You’re my best friend, Stan. Let’s keep each other safe, from now on.”

            “You’re my best friend, too, Kyle,” Stan said, managing a smile despite the grief they both shared in the wake of battle. “I’m here. I’ll always protect you. I promise.”

            “So do I,” said Kyle, gratefully. “So do I.”

* * *

            Clouds covered the hazy sky, terribly devoid of the natural magic the warlocks had for so long stripped mercilessly from throughout their kingdom, and yet the sun burned through in a sickly yellow-orange that washed out the arid surroundings of the western stronghold. There was nothing left in the area but the Keep, Kyle and Stan could see from that height; nothing but barren, choked earth, with patches of brittle brown grass that had died long ago. There was nothing green, nothing alive, nothing in the wake of the way the warlocks ruled that land. It was a grim portent of what might come to the rest of the world should Larnion’s barrier ever fall.

            At the top of the Keep, the Wizard King stood in wait. His eyes, Kyle noticed, reflected no light from the sun; quite fitting, Kyle thought, for a man who had given his life to even the most underhanded forms of dark magic. The Wizard was a large and imposing man, but not a tall one, though this did not stop him from utilizing the roof of the Keep to truly tower over all in the surrounding western lands. In place of any sort of aura, there was only arrogance, and the Wizard appeared to wear this with pride.

            Once Kyle, Stan, Kenny, and their escorts had approached, Kyle saw Token lower his protective shield from a few paces behind the Wizard—the cleric was joined by the Creek, Clyde, and the Valkyrie Bebe and Nichole. All were prepared for battle at a moment’s notice. Neither Stan nor Kyle gave the signal. At present, all eyes were on the enemy.

            The Wizard held a young woman close to him with one hand around her neck. Her clothes were in tatters and her brown hair was unkempt, but there was no mistake—it was Princess Karen. Kenny’s younger sister had always been a sweet, charming, personable girl; someone who loved openly and poured her all into the lessons she learned, and who cared for her sister more than anything. Though broken and tired, the girl, now fifteen, tried so desperately to keep her head up, and to keep her hands clenched into fists to prepare to strike at her captor, if it was the last thing she ever did.

            “My, my,” the Wizard said, in his pompous, cutting tone. “Look at this. The Elf King still stands. And Princess Kenny! So delightful to see you back on your feet. But I would advise you stop where you are.”

            “Karen!” Kenny cried out, her voice cracked and raw.

            Karen’s eyes widened and filled with tears, and though she tried to smile she was unable to do so. Still, she murmured out her sister’s name, with hope in her tone.

            “No rash moves, now,” the Wizard warned Karen, his mouth spreading into a grin.

            Kenny trained her bow on the Wizard. Eyes narrowed and cloudy, she ordered, “Let her go, you bastard.”

            “Would you shoot, Princess?” the Wizard mocked her with a sneer. “Even with your sister in the line of fire?” He let out a hollow laugh. “I knew I liked you.”

            “I do not miss,” said Princess Kenny. “And do not speak to me like that. You disgust me.”

            “And yet you _did_ try to bargain with me, didn’t you?” said the Wizard, sounding almost more serpent than human with the venom in his tone. “Don’t want to make a big mess while your parents are away, isn’t that right?”

            “Hand her over,” Princess Kenny demanded.

            “You sent such a weak negotiator, too,” the Wizard went on. His grip on Princess Karen tightened, and the girl flinched. “That paladin of yours was really such a _gift_ to me. I should be thanking you for making it all so easy up until now.”

            Only now did Princess Kenny seem to falter, with her sister in the Wizard’s grasp and her paladin on his tongue. “Leopold…” she whispered.

            “Princess,” Kyle tried, from one side.

            “Do not lose focus,” Stan added, from the other.

            “Why,” Princess Kenny demanded of their mutual enemy, “must you prey on all we love?”

            “Give me what I want,” said the Warlock, “and perhaps we can make some sort of arrangement for your sister’s life.”

            “What do you want?” asked Princess Kenny.

            “Zaron,” said the Wizard King. “All of it. All one kingdom, all under my rule. No borders, no factional sovereigns. I want the elven border destroyed, and I want you, Princess, to give me the key to the power in _your_ kingdom. Then we’ll see about you walking free with your sister.”

            “No,” Kenny said forcefully. “Give her back to me, or I shoot. That’s the only bargain I’ll make, Wizard.”

            “Hmm.”

            The Wizard disappeared with a flick of his staff, then reappeared, with Karen, at the very edge of the roof. His eyes fixed only on Princess Kenny, he grabbed Karen by the collar and held her over the edge of the building. Princess Karen let out a scream, and grabbed at the man’s wrist. “Kenny!” she cried out.

            “Let her go!” Kenny shouted.

            Kyle feinted behind her and pulled Stan close. “The second Princess Karen is safe, give the signal to strike,” he asked. “We must bring that Wizard down.”

            “Of course,” Stan agreed.

            Frantically, Princess Kenny put away her bow and arrow and searched about in the folds of her ruined dress, heaving a short sigh of relief when she drew from a hidden sewn pocket a small, thin box. The Wizard King stared at it—clearly it had been a thing that he had coveted, that the Princess had managed to keep from his view for the span of that long, long year.

            She lifted the lid from the box and drew from it a flat red crystal—her item of power. Years ago, Kyle and Stan had seen it, and heard the Princess’s lament for its dulled shine. The Princess looked at the gemstone lovingly, with tears in her eyes.

            Then, restoring the box to her pocket, Princess Kenny clutched the gem to her chest and narrowed her eyes at the Wizard King. “Is this what you wanted?” she demanded. “Is this what you were after, all along? Your want for power is so clear to me, Wizard King. I see it in your eyes.”

            “Hand it over, Princess,” the Wizard King commanded.

            “Even if I did, it would be of no use to you but as a rock,” the Princess said. “Magic is so precious in my kingdom, Wizard. It keeps our lands healthy, but one must receive an item imbued with powers from the gods to wield it well.”

            “And here,” said the Wizard King, “items just need a little coaxing. Hand it _over,_ little girl.”

            “It would be of no use to you!” Kenny tried again.

            The Wizard King glowered at her, then looked back at Princess Karen, still held aloft in his right hand, struggling against him. “Well, then,” the Wizard said, looking back at Princess Kenny. “Neither is she.”

            He let go, and Princess Karen let out a scream as she fell off the side of the Keep.

            _“KAREN!”_ Princess Kenny cried, at the same time both Kyle and Stan let out a shocked cry of, _“Princess!”_

            Princess Kenny held the gemstone up to her face and kissed it. Nothing happened.

            “Please!” Kenny screamed at the gem in her hands. “It’s for my sister! _Please!”_

            Then, the gem began to emit a soft pink glow. Tears fell from the Princess’s eyes, and as soon as they touched the gem in her hands, the light grew brighter with a sudden flash. When the burst was gone, a unicorn stood before the Princess, tall and majestic, its mane and tail the rose color of Kenny’s treasured item of power. Kenny barely had time to react before she wrapped her arms around the creature’s neck and whispered, “Save her.”

            The steed reared onto its hind legs, then welcomed Princess Kenny as its rider before taking a running start and leaping headlong over the side of the Keep.

            “Princess Kenny!” Stan and Kyle cried out in unison.

            Stan, closer, rushed to the edge in hopes to catch a glimpse of whatever else would transpire, but he was cut off by the Wizard’s staff striking him in the chest. Stan coughed from the impact but kept his footing, then drew his sword and struck the staff away, holding the Wizard’s weapon at his own arm’s length.

            “Stand down!” Stan shouted at him.

            “Do I know you?” asked the Wizard, in a ruthless tone that implied he certainly did, and that he did not care.

            “Stand _down,”_ Stan warned again.

            The Wizard only sneered. “You’re that little knight, aren’t you?” he asked, trying to push against Stan’s sword. Stan held his ground with practiced ease. “You fought in the last battle. Are you still as quick as you were back then?”

            “What was the point of the kidnapping?” Stan demanded, not dignifying the Wizard with a response. “Why hold Princess Karen ransom if she meant nothing to you?”

            “I only wanted that wretched Princess Kenny and her resources,” the Wizard answered. “I needed all barriers in Zaron to fall, and she held the easiest key.”

            “To what end?” Stan asked. He pushed the Wizard off and held forward his sword in a challenge to attack.

            “After the elves you follow banished me,” the Wizard said, “it took some doing to conjure enough magic to come back. I need more. I need more and I’ll take it!”

            He took up Stan’s challenge and brought down his staff. Stan blocked it and began moving back, away from the edge of the roof. When Stan had him in position at the center, he feinted back, and the Wizard was hit with arrows from three sides—the bows were held by Thresher, Nichole, and Kyle.

            “You have no respect for magic,” Kyle accused as the Wizard began to pluck the arrows out. “Your kingdom relies solely on stolen magic and ancient curses. Your magical items are a drain on what resources you have, and drive you and your kind further and further into power madness. You bring destruction upon yourselves, and then upon others.

            “There’s something that I never understood,” he continued; “not during the battle ten years ago, and not in the time that has passed since.”

            “And what is that, elf?” the Wizard King demanded, every syllable laced with poison.

            Kyle gathered his breath and asked, “Why?”

            “What?”

            “Why?” Kyle asked again, taking two strong steps forward. Thresher and Nichole kept their bows trained on the Wizard, and Kyle noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Feldspar conjure two shadow clones, one of which slowly, silently approached the Wizard from behind. “What was the point of it all? Why summon the Demon King and invoke the ancient Stick of Truth? Why possess a child—a _child—_ to do your dirty work? Why lay waste to so much of the land?” He steadied himself, and commanded himself not to shed tears as he finished his queries with the solemn words, “Why did you kill my parents?”

            The Wizard laughed, plucked the last arrow from where it had struck him in the side, and dropped it to the ground. Blood gathered at the wound, but the Wizard held his staff to his side, and the bleeding stopped. He glared at Kyle and furrowed his brow. “They were in my way,” he said.

            Trying not to cry, Kyle demanded, “That’s _all?”_

            “They were in my way,” the Wizard repeated. “That forest of Larnion is so rich with magic it could fuel me for centuries. I want power. I want immortality. I want all of Zaron at my beck and call, and not even you elves can stop me!”

            Out of sadness and rage and years of grief, tears fell from Kyle’s eyes. He had never seen the Wizard in person until that day—he had only exchanged words with Clyde, possessed and then cured, during the previous battle for the Stick of Truth—and the warlock had just proven himself to be every bit the selfish, arrogant dark magician the knights’ stories had made him out to be. But he was also, it seemed, a coward. And a coward, having tasted power, could so easily become a monster. Kyle had mourned his parents’ deaths for ten long years because of the actions of a man fueled only by greed.

            “You killed them,” Kyle said, trying to keep his rage low for the time being, “you killed so many people… so that _you_ could live forever? You would kill the very spirits who tend to the magic of this world for your own gain? Is that all that drives you?”

            The Wizard grinned. “The Elf King and Queen died marching against the Demon King,” he said. “Haven’t you already found your revenge, elf? His actions were the cause of that battle.”

            “And who manipulated those actions?” Kyle barked. From where he stood, he could see that Clyde had paled at the Wizard’s mention of the Demon King, yet the ranger stood ready to attack. And it seemed clear that the Wizard, with his narrow focus, had not quite taken notice of Clyde yet, or, if he had, the Wizard did not yet recognize him. “You forced the Stick of Truth,” Kyle continued, “into the hands of a helpless child. Every death from that battle is your doing. Was it worth it? Is your lust for other lands’ magic so great that you kill without a thought?”

            “You’re a King, aren’t you?” he said. “You should understand better than anyone what one can do with such power.”

            “No. I understand that my people need me,” Kyle answered as calmly as he could. “I understand that my allies need me and that I need them. I understand that I must protect my forest at all costs from intruders like you who wish to lay waste to it and all who rely on it. And above all, now, I realize that my time is short, and I must do with it all I can, and you can mark my words, Wizard King, I will defend my border and keep watch over Larnion until I draw my final breath, and I will not cow to or be intimidated by terrors the likes of you who think only of yourselves.

            “You cursed a small child. You killed my parents. You killed thousands of people, humans and elves alike. You drain lands of their resources until there is nothing left. You took advantage of a royal paladin of the southern court. You captured and mistreated Zaron’s Princesses, heirs to the southern kingdom. You threatened to tear Larnion apart. In so doing, you have attacked and made yourself the enemy of all allied realms of Zaron, and those of us who stand before you now will ensure that the sovereigns of the west will never lay waste to what is ours again.”

            The Wizard King tilted back his head and let out a stream of laughter. He then scowled over at Kyle, and seethed, “And who is going to stop me, Elf King? You?”

            “Not on my own,” Kyle said firmly. He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and proclaimed: “I am Kyle, King of Larnion, High King of the Drow Elves, ally to the south and Midlands, and I do not fight alone. I believe that a ruler is nothing without the people he must swear to protect. I have the utmost faith in my allies.”

            “Oh, really?” the Wizard King mocked. “Why is that?”

            “Well, to begin, one of them is about to stab you in the ribs.”

            The Wizard King’s eyes flew open wide just as Feldspar’s illusory form rushed in and struck directly to the western sovereign’s ribcage. The Wizard moved to counter, but the shadow form vanished, leaving the Wizard open to a barrage of arrows on Stan’s signal to Thresher and Nichole.

            Stuck with arrows in his chest and stomach, the Wizard nonetheless swept out his long staff and blew back the archers; before either could reach the edge of the roof, the cleric Token caught Nichole, held forward his own staff and murmured an incantation to reverse the spell back toward the Wizard, while Feldspar caught Thresher and helped him to his feet as another of the rogue’s shadow forms cut into the Wizard from behind. The reversed air spell from Token caused the Wizard and Feldspar’s shadow to collide, but the rogue’s clone was able to deal one attack before returning to smoke.

            Feldspar winced but kept his feet, while the Wizard stumbled somewhat before pulling the arrows from his body and aiming his next wind blast toward the two others present—Clyde, and the Valkyrie Bebe. The Valkyrie was prepared, however, and held forward a large shield that had been strapped to her back, protecting her and the ranger both from any harm.

            Kyle and Stan exchanged a quick glance, and when Stan nodded, Kyle touched a hand to his knight’s arm, and the blade of the _King’s Shield_ once again ignited with magical flame. Kyle himself switched out his bow for the staff of his ancestors—the pulse kept time with his heart, but still it stood that he was far from home, and the staff could hold its power for only so much longer before both it and he would succumb to fatigue. Even so, he refused to let its light go out. Neither he nor Larnion would fall that day.

            Sounds of the battle below rose skyward as Wendy commanded the allied troops against the warlocks’ forces, and then from the fray rose another sound: the triumphant whinny of a steed. Just as the Wizard appeared to be preparing his next attack, the unicorn summoned from Princess Kenny’s item of power leapt back onto the roof, this time with both of the southern Princesses as its riders.

            As soon as it landed, Kenny notched three arrows to her bow and shot them directly at the Wizard. One hit his staff, one his neck, and the third grazed one side of his face when he turned in an effort to evade it. The Princess dismounted and shot another four arrows in succession at the Wizard, who had turned his back to her and covered his face in one hand. The four arrows stuck into his spine, but barely seemed to bother him.

            “Turn around and look at me!” Princess Kenny shouted at him. “You marked my face and made me ashamed when I was just a small girl, but that damage done will be _nothing_ compared to what I’m about to do to yours!”

            Slowly, the Wizard picked himself up, and turned to face the Princess. He kept himself steady against his staff, and from their angle of view, Kyle and Stan both saw that a full half of the Wizard’s face was covered in blood; it seeped into his eye and stained his beard, but he showed no signs of pain or discomfort. Keeping eye contact with the Princess, the Wizard held his staff to the side of his face, and his wounds were sealed. Stan thought back to the battle against the frost dragon, and the ease with which the glamoured Leopold had remained upright despite multiple similar wounds; he thought as well to Kyle’s first hypothesis about the false Princess being linked to necromancy, and about the undead soldiers fighting for the west during the battle for the Stick of Truth.

            Dark magic, it stood to reason, stole from all other sources to give undue longevity to its user. The Wizard himself had proclaimed that his goal was immortality, which was, even for the most long-lived of elves and humans alike, naturally impossible. The longevity given by dark magic only stalled death, and made its users numb to pain. But the Wizard was far from invulnerable. If he was separated from the source of his magic, he could easily be defeated. Stan looked across the roof to catch Clyde’s eyes, and ticked his head toward the Wizard. Clyde drew a deep breath and nodded, and, his bare hands exposed, slowly began taking steps toward the enemy.

            No one, however, would deny Princess Kenny her righteous anger with the man who had declared himself the Wizard King.

            As soon a Princess Karen had dismounted and was standing securely at her sister’s side, Princess Kenny held back a hand, and with a touch the unicorn was gone and the red crystal was clasped in her palm. All the while, Princess Kenny glared at the Wizard. The tears were gone from her eyes, replaced with a clear spark that would keep her on her feet and fighting until all was done.

            Thresher and Nichole took cautionary aim, and the others all had weapons at the ready, but Princess Kenny used only her words.

            “You take advantage of those you find weak,” she said to the Wizard, “but look at you. What are you without that which you take from others, Wizard? I saw you back then. When did that child trade his humanity for the hunger to take others’ power until there is nothing left?”

            “You misunderstand me, Princess,” the Wizard said, and spat out blood. “I’ve never wanted anything but. Our kingdom has so little natural magic, you see. He who wields the most rules all.”

            “You’re a monster,” the Princess said, tightening her grip on her item of power. “You would have killed my sister.”

            The Wizard laughed. “You and that Elf King do make a good pair, don’t you?” he said. “You wear your weakness for everyone to see.”

            “You’re dying,” said Princess Kenny. “I don’t think you’re in the best position to be mocking any of us.”

            “Oh, Princess. Once again, you’re wrong.”

            The Wizard held his staff aloft, then brought it down onto the stones at his feet. He disappeared, yet again, and a burst of wind shot skyward from where he had been. Overhead, grey clouds gathered, and thunder clapped, and within seconds rain began pummeling down onto the Keep and the surrounding battlefield.

            “Damn it!” the Princess shouted. “Where are you?!”

            “Sister,” said Princess Karen, touching her arm, “we should go.”

            Princess Kenny held her item of power to her chest, then tucked it into its box and returned it to the secret folds in her dress before turning to embrace Karen tightly. “All I want is your safety, Karen,” she said. “But I must stay here and fight until that wicked man no longer poses a threat to us or any of our allies.”

            “I know,” said Karen. “Let me fight, too.”

            “My little sister,” Kenny said, “I could not ask that of you.”

            The Valkyrie Nichole stepped forward, and said, “Princess Karen, I’ve a fast steed and two guards waiting for you below. I can take you to safety, you’ll be well protected, and out of harm’s way.”

            “No… please,” the younger Princess asked. Though she, too, struggled on her feet, her words were strong. She looked from Nichole to her sister, and said, “My place is with the Valkyrie, and by your side, Kenny. Our kingdom is mine to fight for, too.”

            Kenny stood back, smoothed back her sister’s hair, then showed a proud smile, and nodded. “I understand,” she said. “Take up arms, then. I never imagined that this would be the way you and I would one day enter into battle together.”

            “Nor I,” said Karen. “But I am proud to do so, all the same.”

            “Princess,” Kyle said, walking forward with Stan at his side, “we should regroup with the Valkyrie below. We’ll be much stronger with greater numbers.”

            “Yes,” said Kenny, “of course.”

            “I’m glad to see the two of you unharmed and reunited,” Kyle added gratefully. “Princess Karen, are you all right?”

            “Thank you, your highness,” said the younger Princess. “I do think that I will be.”

            The sisters embraced again as the others gathered under shields that the two Valkyrie among them held aloft, and then Bebe held forward a sword to Princess Karen. “It has been too long since I’ve seen you, Princess,” she said. “Take this, and let it serve you well.”

            Karen nodded, and took up the sword with only a little difficulty as she found her footing. “Thank you, Bebe,” she said. Then, after a moment, she added, to Bebe and Nichole both, “Thank you for coming to find me.”

            “We’re grateful to have you back, Princess,” said Nichole.

            “I’m sorry I lost sight of you,” said Bebe.

            Karen shook her head. “I do not blame you,” she said.

            Bebe nodded, and smiled, and said, “Thank you, Princess. Sire,” she then asked Kyle, “shall we move on? The Commander will surely send someone our way should she have eyes on the Wizard. I’ve my own scouts on lookout below, as well.”

            “I’ve also sent another shadow to assist in the search,” said Feldspar. “I doubt he’s gone far beyond the Keep.”

            “Onward, then,” Kyle decided.

            The party, in their now increased number, hurried on, with Stan’s knights at the head to take arms against any first attack they may encounter. Back under cover of the sixth storey of the Keep, the Princesses wrung out their dresses best they could as everyone moved onward across the old stone floors.

            “All the way to the roof only to disappear again,” Stan said. “He’s only trying to exhaust us.”

            “All the more reason,” Kyle said, “to bring the place down. Give him nowhere to run.”

            “And should he be trapped inside,” said Princess Kenny, “all the better. Where could he possibly have harnessed the power we’ve just seen him display? That’s too much, for one man.”

            “I’ll admit he’s much more formidable than my records have ever shown,” said Token. “There is no prior instance of the Wizard, nor any of the western sovereigns, utilizing magic strong enough to control the weather.”

            “Then, how is it possible?” asked Stan. “I’m not well studied in magic myself, but I know well the limitations for human sorcerers.”

            “Limitations,” said Princess Kenny, “restrict only those of us who utilize magic as intended. He must have…”

            “He stole it,” Clyde offered. The party fell silent for a few steps, and then Clyde cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, your highness,” he said to the Princess. “I, er…”

            Princess Kenny stopped, which halted the others as well. “Who are you?” she wondered.

            “I am a ranger,” was his answer, “by the name of Clyde. I was…”

            “You were the boy,” said Princess Kenny. “The one wielding the Stick of Truth…”

            “Yes, but that time has long passed, I promise you, my lady.” It was still with difficulty that Clyde addressed royalty, but he pressed on. “I know full well, therefore, what that man is capable of, so I’ve reason enough to believe that the Wizard’s control of the weather was stolen from your paladin’s hammer.”

            “No…” Princess Kenny whispered, wide-eyed.

            “It’s called the Hammer of Storms, your highness, is that correct?” Clyde asked.

            “It is…”

            Princess Kenny stumbled a bit, and her sister, though weak on her feet as well, caught her and held her up. “Any power wielded by a paladin,” said Kenny, “is sacred to our kingdom. He’s mocking me.”

            “That’s very likely so,” said Kyle. “Just as he has mocked me with setting challenges vulnerable to flame my way. He thinks us both weak for possessing such qualities as compassion, and love, and fear. But our armies are out there, Princess, they are ready for anything, and so are we. Together, all of us can stop this dreadful nightmare for good. Don’t let him undermine you.”

            The Princess let out a slight sigh, and said, “Thank you, sire. You’re right. Together, we are strong in this. But I do want my justice.”

            “I understand,” Kyle said. “All I ask is that you please not let that want consume you. And Clyde, as for you,” he added. “Has the Wizard seen you?”

            “If he has, he’s not yet aware of who I am,” said Clyde.

            “Then we utilize that,” Kyle decided. “Can you get close enough to at least lay hands on his staff?”

            “My thoughts exactly,” Stan concurred.

            “I’ll certainly try,” Clyde said.

            “Then we have our plan,” Kyle said. “We move in, we attack with all we can, and Clyde, it is up to you to get that staff away from him. No more tricks, not from that monster.”

            All were then agreed, and continued on.

            As the party made haste from floor to floor, Feldspar and Token marked wall stones with magical runes that would ease the building’s collapse, while the two Valkyrie and Princess Karen cut through as many vines as they could, to loosen the growth in the cracks between stones. Stan and Kyle brought up the rear of the group, and when all others had made it to the storey below, Stan, too, cut into the walls with his flaming blade, seeing to it that the collapse would be all the more imminent.

            When the third storey was reached, however, a legion of the undead stood in wait.

            “Damn!” Clyde yelped. “Where did those come from?”

            “It doesn’t matter,” said Princess Kenny. “If you fight for us, attack!”

            Kyle tucked away his staff and drew his longbow again, aiming for the soldiers furthest back, felling two in a single blow. Princess Kenny, Nichole, and Thresher made quick work of still others with their own arrows, while Stan led the charge forward with the rest—he with his blade, and Princess Karen, Feldspar, and Bebe with theirs. Feldspar called forward no more conjured shadow clones, though from fatigue or for a future strategy Kyle was unsure. Clyde fought with nothing but his bare hands, and with a touch from his tattooed palms to a single limb of an undead soldier, his enemy was defeated and motionless.

            “Push through!” Kyle called out to the party, as he let two more arrows fly, both tips ablaze with flame. “We’ve got to exit before the collapse!”

            “The Wizard is doing this!” Princess Kenny declared. “I’m sure of it. What’s to say there aren’t still more on the levels below?”

            “We won’t know until we defeat this lot,” Kyle said. “You may have my arrows if you feel you’re falling short. I’m otherwise armed.”

            “I’ve a few, yet,” said the Princess. “But I don’t trust what that monster is plotting for the moment we make it out.”

            “Nor do I,” said Kyle. “What I do know is that we are strong in our number. If any among us can disarm him, victory will be well within reach.”

            Princess Kenny smiled, and the two of them each fired two arrows at the coming horde. “What?” Kyle wondered.

            “You are a strong leader, sire,” said the Princess. “I’m glad that we are in this fight once again as allies. That’s all.”

            Kyle felt a pressure in his chest, and worry shook him for a moment as he realized then that the Princess well could have imbued sincerity in her written proposal, that it was not simply a coded call for help, but a heartfelt wish for marriage. All would be discussed, he knew, but not until the battle was over and won. “As am I,” he stated as simply as he could.

            He dismissed his own bow and arrows, then, for the sword at his hip. He drew the blade and swept a hand across it, murmuring an incantation as he strode forward to assist his beloved knight with the last of the enemy numbers. Kyle’s own sword burst into flame, and he rushed forward to first block an enemy blade, and then thrust his sword into the undead soldier’s gut. It fell to the ground, and now few enough remained, he noticed, that Feldspar and Token were once again marking stones, and Bebe had shifted her focus to the vines.

            Kyle was so preoccupied in assessing those motions that he nearly did not see another undead soldier approaching him, but the thing was cleaved in two from behind, and as the enemy collapsed, Stan, who had dealt the blow, stood before Kyle, and smiled fondly. “We fight as one, indeed,” Stan remarked, with regard to Kyle’s burning blade.

            “Yes,” Kyle said, and showed his own fond smile in return. “Until the end.”

            “Of course. How are you faring, my lord?” Stan asked, reaching forward to gently clasp Kyle’s arm with one hand.

            “Well enough,” Kyle admitted. “And you, darling?” he asked, quite nearly forgetting himself in the presence of the rest of the party, even in the midst of battle.

            Stan’s cheeks reddened somewhat, and his smile stayed on as he lowered his tone to a near whisper for his reply: “So long as I am here at your side, Kyle, I am as well as I could ever be.”

            Kyle quite nearly lost himself in the moment, but then he noticed then that Stan was favoring one shoulder, keeping his sword in his left hand. Stan had been dealt an awful blow when they first had arrived at the Keep, and though Kyle had been able to slow the bleeding, the wound required true medical attention, magical or otherwise. Stan noticed, and assured him again, “I’m all right.”

            Kyle nodded, and bent his head to kiss Stan’s armor.

            From ahead, the Valkyrie Nichole announced, “All have been vanquished, your highness. Shall we continue on?”

            Kyle steadied his breath and stood back to declare, “Yes. Thank you. We’ll be right behind you. Please, keep the Princesses safe.”

            “You have our steel and our word,” said Nichole.

            When the others had begun their descent to the second level, Kyle quickly pulled Stan in, kissed his cheek, and said, “Please, stay safe, my love. I can’t lose you.”

            “I’m here,” Stan promised. “Do you need to rest at all yourself, Kyle? Forgive me, but I’ve noticed the pulse of your staff… do you not want to dismiss it and conserve your energy?”

            Kyle stood back and shook his head. “We must win this for Larnion,” he said, “and so I must keep Larnion with me. My father carried this staff into battle ten years ago, as our ancestors did before him. Though he fell, I promise you, I will not. And, Stan, when… when this is done…”

            He could not say the rest, but both knew that there was so much still to discuss with the Princess, and so no words needed to be said. In place of words, the two shared a kiss until a rumbling could be heard overhead. It was a combination of thunder rolling in the sky, and a clap of lightning that had struck the roof of the Keep, speeding the building’s demise.

            Stan stood back first to assess the damage, then held out his right hand and said, “For Larnion, my love.”

            Kyle took his hand and echoed, strongly, “For Larnion.”

            And with that, the two of them sped to the next level down, where only the Creek awaited them. “Sire,” said Thresher, “lightning has struck—there are soldiers below, but the Valkyrie are pushing through. We need to leave before the building crumbles.”

            “Lead the way,” Kyle said.

            Thresher hurried forward, keeping his hands on his bow and two arrows that were poised to fly at a moment’s notice, and Feldspar followed behind. When the four had reached the entry hall yet again, Feldspar darted ahead, drew two daggers, and was the first to strike against the hoarde of undead soldiers that awaited them, blocking their line to the exit. Thresher let his arrows fly, felling two opponents, while Stan and Kyle took up their swords and brought down still two more from either side.

            Stan moved forward first, and with a single cut cleaved down three more soldiers, yet more pushed onward. One tried to reach for his arm, but Stan cut the thing’s own arm off before tossing the body aside. “They keep advancing!” he called out.

            Feldspar conjured four shadow clones and sent them far to the end of the hall to attack, and though each brought down a foe, each in turn were cut through. Feldspar winced, and asked, “How should we continue?”

            “I’ve more arrows yet,” said Thresher, “but my extra quivers are with the horses.”

            “Stand back, then,” Kyle requested.

            “Kyle—” Stan tried. He glanced at the softly glowing staff at Kyle’s back.

            “I’ll be all right,” Kyle said. “This will only take a simple spell. Everyone, stand behind me.”

            Stan adjusted his stance and cut through the midriffs of five more undead soldiers in two swings, then doubled back and stood at the ready just a hand’s length behind Kyle. The Creek followed suit—Feldspar kept hold of one of his daggers, while Thresher notched three arrows to his bow.

            Kyle sheathed his sword, and held both hands forward, conjuring into each upturned palm a ball of flame. His breathing became staggered, and he knew that he could not waste much energy on a simple spell, should anything more complex be needed in the heat of the continued battle, but there would be no battle nor even a future for any of them if he did not act now.

            “Let us through!” he shouted to the legions of the undead. They did not stir.

            Kyle drew in a deep breath, then threw forward the concentrated flame in his left hand, burning a straight line down through the middle of the ranks of their opponents. He then swept out with his right hand to cast the rest of the flame through the remaining soldiers. “Let’s move!” he called to the others, and drew his sword again.

            There were precious few soldiers still standing, and between Stan, Kyle, and Feldspar’s blades, Thresher did not waste a single arrow to fell them. When they finally ran for the front door, Stan took hold of Kyle’s arm and kept him close as they exited the Keep and found themselves in the midst of the greater battle.

            The western forces were more comprised now of undead soldiers than living, and over the din of the clashing of steel through the downpour all around them, Kyle heard Commander Wendy call out, “Strike to wound and disarm, but not to kill! They’ll only rise again if they fall!”

            The Valkyrie Commander then rode past the entrance of the decaying Keep on her warhorse and said, “I’m glad to see you unharmed, your highness. We’ve been holding back the Wizard’s soldiers, but I’m afraid that this storm has brought a new challenge to the battlefield.”

            Kyle and Stan both took a moment to survey their surroundings. Though western forces still stood and fought, it was indeed clear that Larnion’s warriors and allies were triumphing. Knights from among Stan’s number and from Kenny’s court had formed a barrier on the far side of the Keep to stop the western soldiers in their tracks, and most of the Valkyrie were engaged in ground combat.

            “You’ve done masterfully, Commander,” Stan told her. “You have our gratitude. Has there been any sign of the Wizard?”

            “Not yet,” said Commander Wendy, “but in these squalls, it can sometimes be difficult to tell whether someone or something is moving about with them.”

            There was another terrible crash of thunder overhead, and Kyle said, “We need to get away from this building. Commander, have you seen where the Princesses have gone?”

            “I have, sire. I’ll take you there.”

            Kyle gave his thanks, and the four followed Commander Wendy best they could through the spitting, angry rain to a slight shelter behind two cracked boulders on the edge of the battlefield. Gathered there were the Princesses, Clyde, and Token, still accompanied by Bebe and Nichole, the latter of whom had her bow trained to the field, while the cleric had drawn runic charms into the dusty ground to keep the rain at bay from the area around their makeshift shelter. Princess Karen kept a firm grip on her borrowed sword, but huddled beside her sister, shivering; Kyle feared for the girl’s ability to remain in the battle in such a condition, but he knew that nothing he could suggest would sway either of the sisters from allowing Karen to continue to fight. Besides, now that the two were reunited, Kyle had no intention of making them feel that they needed to separate again.

            “Sire,” said Princess Kenny, lifting her head as the faction of the party approached, “any sign of the Wizard?”

            “None yet,” Kyle said. He and Stan knealt at the Princesses’ side, while Feldspar and Thresher remained standing with the three Valkyrie in their number to keep an eye on the field. “The western soldiers are being held back, and the Keep is due to collapse at any second, but there has been no sign of the monster.”

            “Only,” said Token, casting a worried glance at the field, “scores of the undead rising from the ground to fight _for_ him.”

            Clyde shuddered, and said, “Necromancy is child’s play to the warlocks. Quite literally. They had me raising the dead within minutes of holding the Stick of Truth under the Demon King’s command. They’re just bodies, though. Empty puppets the warlocks force to do the bulk of their armed work.”

            “These legions are nothing we cannot handle,” Commander Wendy said with confidence. “It is the sheer number of them that is worrisome.”

            “Precisely,” Stan agreed. “If the Wizard’s strategy is simply to wear us down, we may need to fall back and lay out options for counterattacks. If he doesn’t show himself soon…”

            “He will,” said Princess Kenny, with confidence. “He’s too arrogant to not want to witness all he has wrought.”

            “If that’s so,” said Bebe, “then we should waste no more time, and return to the field. I hate to say this to your highnesses, but making yourselves known would be the most likely thing to lure him out.”

            “She’s right,” said Princess Karen. “He— _oh!”_

            “What is it, Princess?” Stan asked.

            “Soldiers attacking!” Princess Karen observed, her eyes on the battlefield. “We’ve been found.”

            Stan raised his sword, as Thresher, Nichole, and Wendy fired arrows upon the attackers. Two of the undead lunged forward, however, and were soon upon the shelter.

            “Get down!” Stan called to the others.

            Wendy, Bebe, and Nichole raised their shields to block the attack, and though Stan had his sword raised to strike, just as Kyle had arrows notched to his bow, it was Clyde who rose to deliver the strike that brought down both of the undead soldiers. He grabbed the soldiers by the necks, one in each hand, and as black smoke rose from the area of contact, the soldiers collapsed, removed of their falsely-granted life.

            Clyde slumped to the ground and bent over his knees, keeping his palms up as he shakily caught his breath. Stan and Kyle exchanged a quick, concerned glance, and then Stan asked, “What’s wrong?”

            “I’ve just never put it to this much use, Sir,” Clyde answered, lifting his head somewhat. “A bit here and there to counteract dark magic, sure, but never against an army.”

            “Let me see,” Bebe asked.

            Dumbfounded, Clyde showed her his palms, looking up into the Valkyrie’s expression as she studied the markings on his hands. “Wards against magic still act as magic themselves,” she said kindly. “Save your strength.”

            “Er… thank you,” Clyde said, and then cleared his throat and poured more strength into his tone as he said, “but I still need to fight.”

            “Yes, and fight you should, and fight you shall,” said Bebe. “Your enchantments must be but one of your resources. Have you armed yourself beyond these markings?”

            “I’ve only my daggers and my wits besides,” Clyde admitted.

            Bebe smiled. “Then keep both sharp and keen,” she said. “Fight well, noble ranger.”

            Clyde’s face reddened. “I’m not—” he tried, “I’m not no—” His words were cut short when the Valkyrie kissed his cheek. Bebe then stood up, drew her sword, and marched back into the fray. Clyde stared after her, speechless.

            Stan waited a moment, then clapped a hand on Clyde’s shoulder and asked, “Can you continue to fight?”

            Clyde blinked in surprise, then, still quite flustered, drew a dagger in each hand and decided, “I can now.”

            “Good man,” Stan remarked, with a bit of a laugh. Stan had grown quite used to Clyde’s mannerisms while the ranger had been in his employ, and though Clyde was still something of an oddity to Stan, he was a solid fighter, and Stan was glad to count him as a friend and ally.

            Stan glanced to the side to assess how Kyle was faring; the flame enchantment he’d cast inside the Keep had not seemed to have drained his energy much, and Kyle had dismissed his longbow again for his sword. Feldspar and Thresher sped forward, ahead of the Valkyrie, to lead the charge against the current onslaught of the Wizard’s undead soldiers, and even the cleric Token had moved from defense to attack, utilizing his staff as a blunt weapon that proved more than effective against his opponents. The Princesses were next to re-join the fight, but Stan and Kyle stayed back, both hanging on Commander Wendy’s words that through the rain, it was difficult to tell whether or not something might be moving.

            A terrible groaning and clattering came from a short distance, then, and Kyle and Stan stood to watch as the stone Keep, weak from attack and its many years of neglect, crumbled from the top down. Parts of the foundation remained standing as rubble crashed around the nearby barren field, but it was now only a skeleton of what it had been even moments ago.

            Lightning struck the ruins again, and when it did, the flash illuminated the imposing silhouette of the Wizard, standing with his white staff aloft, his eyes on the battlefield. Upon another thunderclap and flash of lightning, the Wizard brought down his staff and a great rumbling echoed across the land, ceasing all movement as a wind whipped up around the malevolent man; himself the eye of the storm. Blood still remained plastered to his face from the gash the Princess had inflicted, but if he felt anything at all from the wounds he had sustained, he showed no sign of discomfort. The sight made him even more of a terror, but Kyle held his ground, refusing to let a single one of the Wizard’s underhanded tricks intimidate him.

            Loudly, then, for all to hear above the rainfall, the Wizard demanded, “Bring me the Princess and the Elf King!”

            Undead soldiers began to walk forward to follow the Wizard’s bidding, but Princess Kenny shot three of them down, while Princess Karen and the Valkyrie disposed of the others with keen strikes from their respective blades. Kyle drew a deep breath, and set his free hand on Stan’s arm, prompting, once again, both of their swords to catch flame, burning steady even against the downpour.

            As another of the Wizard’s soldiers approached, Kyle slid forward and struck it down, his sword to the soldier’s neck; Stan cut down still another from behind, with a strike to the ribs.

            “Sire,” Princess Kenny said, joining the two once again. “Now’s our chance.”

            “Right,” Kyle agreed. “Let’s end this.” To Stan, he requested, “Stay beside me as long as you can, but when the moment comes, I want you and Clyde to disarm him. He must be rendered powerless before we can dispose of him for good.”

            “Gladly, my lord,” Stan responded.

            Kyle smiled for him, then nodded to the Princess, and kept his hands firmly around the hilt of his sword as the two young nobles approached their greatest enemy for the last time.

            Stan followed, and was sure to catch the eyes of Commander Wendy, the Creek, and Clyde as he passed, ordering each of them silently to approach best they could while the Wizard was preoccupied.

            The wind and rain were merciless, and seemed to be Kyle and Kenny’s only opponents as they made their way across the battlefield. Kyle could hear and feel his own heartbeat as he went, but focused as well on the sound of Stan’s footsteps behind him. Kyle knew that it was his duty to end this battle, whether he struck the final blow himself or delegated the task to another, and he could not help but think back on how little his council had prepared him for a moment like this. More than anyone, his guidance had been Stan. It had been Stan who had taught Kyle how to ride like a soldier, how to fight with a sword; it had been Stan, not the council, who had encouraged Kyle all throughout his life to act on what he knew to be right and just, and not be beholden to the written word alone. Diplomacy was active in times of war; as King of Larnion, the honor and the duty rested upon Kyle to keep the elven borders strong, to keep the allied lands of Zaron at peace. This day may not, Kyle knew, be the greatest challenge he would face in his life, but it was the greatest he had undertaken thus far. And he had the assurance that, just as he had proclaimed himself aloud to his enemy, he was not alone.

            All sound seemed to die as Kyle and Princess Kenny walked into the eye of the storm.

            The rain poured and wind howled around them, but within the eye, the world was silent as the grave, and cold as the expression on the Wizard’s sullen face.

            Princess Kenny spoke first, one of her last arrows trained at the Wizard’s heart—if the monster had a heart. “You stole my paladin’s sacred power,” she accused him.

            “He gave it to me, Princess,” the Wizard said, dourly. “And you delivered him to me. Imagine that.”

            “You _stole it,”_ Princess Kenny snapped again. “A paladin’s power is a gift from the gods. By claiming it as your own, along with so many, many wrongdoings besides, you have made yourself an eternal enemy of my kingdom.”

            “And for forcefully betraying the trust of my court in matters of my alliance with the south,” Kyle added, raising his sword with the tip pointed at the Wizard’s neck, “and for your countless wrongdoings besides, you have made yourself an eternal enemy of mine.”

            The Wizard barked out a laugh. “Larnion would never sign a treaty with the west willingly,” he said. “I seized my opportunity, and I nearly had that barrier broken down. It took years for all of those pieces to fall into place. Where’s that wretched little knight of yours? He ruined everything the moment he exposed my dragon.”

            “It’s over, Wizard,” Kyle said strongly. “So long as I am King, dark magic will _never_ enter into my realm, nor any other.”

            “And how long will that be?” the Wizard sneered. “I can wait for you to die. Or I could kill you here and now, being what you are. If your parents fell so easily in battle, here in my land, imagine how simple a task it should be to destroy you, half-breed.”

            Kyle felt his eyes sting with tears, but he held his ground.

            “What _will_ your precious kingdom think, when they learn about you?” the Wizard continued.

            “I respect my people and they respect me,” Kyle returned. “It may be difficult for you to understand, Wizard, but trust goes far for those who rightly practice it.” He drew a breath, then asked of Princess Kenny, “I’m sure you’ve heard, then? About my bloodline?”

            “I have, sire,” said the Princess. “This monster has been calling it his bargaining chip from the moment he threw me in shackles.”

            “And now you know,” Kyle said to the Wizard, “it doesn’t bother me, nor will it affect my ability to rule, nor will it cause me to falter in my protection of my kingdom and all who reside in it. You have nothing, and I am stronger than you could have possibly prepared for.”

            “Why?” the Wizard shouted, irate. “Because of your _allies?”_

            “Precisely.”

            “Then I’ll just begin by killing _them!”_

            The Wizard darted forward, but Kyle dealt a swift strike, his sword against the Wizard’s staff, and threw him backwards. The Wizard fell onto his back a few paces away, and the noise of the storm was again all around, the rain beating down as it had done before. Before the Wizard could pick himself up, Princess Kenny shot an arrow at each of the man’s wrists, pinning him down by the long sleeves of his garment.

            As the Wizard writhed to tug himself free, Kyle signaled to Stan and both moved forward. The Wizard ripped his sleeves to shreds in order to sit up as both Kyle and Stan brought their swords down upon him, and their adversary blocked their blades with his staff at the last moment. Kyle felt Stan begin to push down with his blade, and Kyle put all of his breath and strength into attacking with the same force.

            Sparks rose up from the Wizard’s staff, signaling that the blazing swords were succeeding in weakening it somewhat, but the dark magic held it together. The Wizard disappeared as his back hit the ground, only to reappear a few steps behind Kyle and Stan; he swept out with his staff to create another terrible surge that knocked both of them off their feet, but the Wizard was stopped from making another move by a clean shot from the Princess, her arrow burrowing into the Wizard’s back.

            Stan helped Kyle to his feet, asking, “Are you all right?”

            Kyle nodded, and said, “I’ve felt better, but I’m sure we’ll bring about an end to this soon. And you, Stan?”

            “I can fight on,” Stan assured him. “In fact,” he said, assessing the Wizard’s present situation, with the man practically incapacitated as he tried to pull the arrow out of his back to no avail, “I think I may be able to make a clean strike.”

            “I trust you,” Kyle said, giving Stan a smile. “Do what you must. But do be careful,” he asked as well, before Stan could go.

            Stan gave his own smile in thanks, then took up his sword and rushed at the Wizard from behind. The Princess feinted back, but had another arrow at the ready, and just as the Wizard had managed to grip the shaft of the arrow between his shoulders, Stan did indeed make a keen strike directly through the Wizard’s ribs on his right side. The Wizard let out a howl, and, in his moment of panic and pain, dropped his white staff to the ground.

            Stan saw shadows moving in the rain around him, and trusted that they were allies at his aid, and not further opposition. He drew out his sword, then spun the Wizard to face him, pointing the tip of his blade between his adversary’s eyes. “You’ve threatened my kingdom for the last time,” Stan warned. “It’s over.”

            The Wizard emitted a low growl from his throat, but winced, and grasped at the wound in his side. _“Your_ kingdom,” he mocked. “Listen to you, arrogant knight. I’ve watched your every move through my puppets, whenever I had the chance. You truly must think yourself something of a hero, don’t you? Why follow the elves at all, knight from nothing?”

            “So it was you speaking through Leopold after all,” Stan surmised. “Why do you think so little of those of us who are lower-born? To what end does that make you feel greater, more powerful? I serve Larnion because Larnion has served me, all my life. There is a give and take to each and every land of Zaron, but it seems that your kind lost it long ago. I follow the elves because they saved me and showed me kindness, and I will repay that kindness in full to my kingdom until my dying breath.”

            “Dying breath?” the Wizard repeated. He held up his free hand, and his staff moved into it. “I can arrange that for you here and now.”

            Before the Wizard could strike, however, he was hit again in the back—this time not from an arrow, but from a dagger. The Wizard let out another yowl and spun around; Stan took two steps back, but held his sword at the ready as out from the squalls of heavy rain walked Clyde, his second dagger poised to strike. At such an angle, Stan still could see the Wizard’s eyes widen with understanding the moment Clyde made himself known.

            “You do like to pick on the Midlanders, don’t you?” Clyde said to the Wizard. His voice shook somewhat, but he continued walking forward. “That knight may not have been bred a nobleman, but he’s _made_ something of himself, and despite the things you’ve done to me, and taken from me, I damn well intend to do the same.” He removed and dropped his wide-brimmed hat, and demanded, “Recognize me?”

            “How are you still alive…?” the Wizard asked in disbelief.

            “I could ask the same of you, but I think I’ve got you figured out well enough,” Clyde spat back.

            The Wizard paused, then emitted a low, terrible laugh. “Once possessed, ever marked, you inconsiderate vessel,” he said to Clyde. “You’re powerless to lift a finger against me now.”

            “Oh, on the contrary, _Eric,”_ Clyde spat, “I’m quite sure I have exactly what it takes to finally tear you apart.”

            The Wizard once again took a shocked pause, which gave enough time for still more of the party to close in. Stan could remember the Wizard offering up his name during the battle ten years prior, when he had seemed to be nothing more than a young boy himself. It stood to reason, then, that the Wizard would have given his name to Clyde as well, in a false promise of trust, or, perhaps more likely, simply as a slip of the tongue as the Wizard himself took further and further steps away from his humanity and down the path of malevolence and dark magic.

            “You forced me to kill for you!” Clyde shouted at the Wizard, tossing his second dagger into the man’s neck. The Wizard grabbed it out, and stumbled, keeping a loose hold of his staff. “You forced me to wage war for you! And you would have tossed me aside to die the second I was of no further use to you. I’m with the rest of Zaron in this, Wizard: the barrier will hold.”

            Surrounding the Wizard now were all in the number of the main party: Kyle, keeping close to where Stan stood, the two Princesses, flanked by Commander Wendy and her two closest Valkyrie warriors, the Princess’s cleric, and the Creek, all with weapons drawn and prepared for any necessary attack. The Wizard was in poor condition, but he held his staff against his side to seal up the wound from Stan’s sword, then against his neck to seal the wound from Clyde’s dagger, and then the Wizard spun out his staff and struck out at Clyde, hitting him hard in the sternum.

            Clyde recoiled and fell back, and after one of Thresher’s arrows hit the Wizard’s staff, Stan and Kyle both moved in. The Wizard held his staff at its center, and struck out best he could against them both, but Stan countered each strike from the left with his sword, and Kyle each strike from the right with his own.

            With the Wizard preoccupied, Feldspar silently moved in; when he gave a signal to Kyle, both Kyle and Stan pushed back against the Wizard’s staff with their blades, and Feldspar drove one of his daggers up into the Wizard’s lower spine, then darted back and away in order to let the man fall.

            The Wizard’s breathing was slowed, now, but he still picked himself up. Kyle fell back, sheathing his sword and drawing the staff of his ancestors, while Stan remained at the head of the charge. When the Wizard was back on his feet, he struck out indiscriminately, but Stan blocked his attack, cutting into the Wizard’s left hand with the edge of his sword. The Wizard let out a yell and forced Stan back, but Stan did not rush forward again. He saw that Kyle was planning a spell, and chose to remain at the ready for whatever came next.

            “Let go of your weapon and surrender,” Kyle commanded of their age-old adversary. “Your tyranny ends today.”

            “Not likely,” the Wizard spat, though his grip faltered.

            “I said,” Kyle repeated, holding out his staff, “let go of your weapon.”

            Kyle closed his eyes and let out a long, light breath; his family’s staff still pulsed with its magic to the beat of his own heart, and he found himself now repeating the spell he had used to disarm the Demon King, all those years ago. _For Larnion,_ he thought, willing the very fabric of his realm to hear, from so far away.

            Kyle’s staff began to glow, bright and beautiful with the intrinsic power of Larnion, until it illuminated the battlefield. The rain itself appeared to become iridescent for a moment, before Kyle directed an attack of nothing but bright light in the direction of the Wizard.

            From all around, Kyle could hear a rush of movement, but let the spell linger for an instant longer, to be sure that it had worked as he had hoped. It was more a hope and prayer than a spell, one that required Kyle to pour his energy into asking for Larnion’s assistance to uphold the barrier that kept dark magic out of his kingdom, even from a distance. The light itself was a manifestation of that barrier, and the dark magic concealed in the Wizard’s staff, along with the Wizard himself, was unwelcome and uninvited, and therefore rendered immobile as long as the light shone.

            When the light subsided, the Wizard dropped the relic to the ground, and as he tried to shake himself aware of his surroundings again, someone else rushed in and took it before the Wizard could even begin to find it in his line of sight.

            Stan rushed to Kyle’s side, shifting his sword into his right hand and holding Kyle up with his left. Kyle’s heartbeat had quickened, as had the pulse in his staff, but he measured his breathing to keep himself from the verge of collapse. “Are you all right?” Stan asked. “Can you stand?”

            “I can,” Kyle responded in a whisper. “Thank you, Stan.”

            “Of course. I’m not leaving your side until I know you’re all right.”

            “I will be,” Kyle said, glad to have Stan so close as he regained his strength after the complicated spell. “Though I do hope we’ve reached the end of this fight.”

            “As do I,” Stan admitted. “All that remains now is what became of that relic…”

            “Sir!” Clyde called over to Stan, then. The Wizard’s weapon was securely in Clyde’s hands. “Now’s our chance; he knows his staff won’t hold up long with me around!”

            “Oh,” the Wizard began, “you insipid little—”

            An arrow cut him off, sailing past his face and sticking into the ground nearby. Poised to strike again stood Princess Kenny, her eyes narrowed on him.

            “You missed,” the Wizard said in a dark tone.

            “I never miss,” said Princess Kenny. “The next one is going directly between your eyes.”

            “Unlikely,” said the Wizard, and he held out a hand to call back his staff.

            Clyde, however, held it firmly, and in his marked hands, the dark magic relic refused to budge. All eyes were on the ranger, now, and on the plumes of black smoke rising from the places on the staff where his palms touched it.

            “No…” the Wizard said, fear finally encroaching upon the tone of his voice. Attempting to gain the upper hand again, he shouted, “Well enough, then! Let that one take you over, now, vessel!”

            Though it was doubtful that there was a word of truth to the threat, Stan cast a look over at Clyde in concern nonetheless. “Is it…?” he started to ask.

            “I don’t know,” Clyde admitted. “But I have it, now, and it’s time this relic was destroyed, just as the Stick of Truth was.”

            “How?” Stan asked.

            “A strike from a strong blade should do. You’ve got to break it,” Clyde said. “I can nullify its magic, but this thing is incredibly powerful. I’m sure I can only hold onto it for so long. Break it while I keep hold. I’ll be able to keep the dark magic contained until the staff is destroyed.”

            “Will it affect you in any way?” Stan had to know.

            “I doubt it will overpower these markings, and I’ve been resistant to dark magic for ten long years,” Clyde said with confidence. “But if it does, if it lashes back at me for what I was, then… well, just do what you have to do.”

            “Clyde, no.”

            “Sir, this is my choice and it’s my battle to finish just as much as it is yours!” Clyde insisted. He tightened his grip on the staff. “This needs to be destroyed if the Wizard is to be defeated. If it destroys me, too, then so be it.”

            “No,” Stan said. “I won’t strike down an ally.”

            “Sir, break it!” Clyde shouted. “Now!”

            “Let go of it!” Stan shouted back.

            “No, I don’t want to think of what might happen if I do,” Clyde responded. “This could be our only chance, Sir, break it! Destroy it!”

            “Give that back,” the Wizard warned. He held out his right hand, and with the last of its energy the staff trembled in Clyde’s hands as if to return to its user.

            _“Break it!”_ Clyde shouted again.

            Stan and Kyle exchanged a glance, and both knew what needed to be done. When Stan had taken his vows to become a knight, he had promised to do all that he could to keep his King and his kingdom from harm. He, too, knew of the difficult choices that needed to be made in the throes of battle, and now he simply needed to trust his gut instinct that all would turn out right.

            Stan gave Kyle another look over, and only stepped back when he was sure that Kyle could stand on his own. He thought about their promises to one another, about the favour of luck that each of them carried from the other, and their assurance that the victorious outcome of this battle would be theirs to share. He squeezed Kyle’s arm reassuringly, and Kyle smiled in return.

            They nodded to one another, and then Stan strode forward, holding aloft the flaming blade of the _King’s Shield._ “Hold your ground,” he instructed Clyde.

            “Even if I can’t—” Clyde started.

            “Hold your ground,” Stan tried again, almost a plea this time.

            “If I can’t,” Clyde said again, “it’s been an honor fighting with you, Sir.”

            Stan held his breath for a moment, then smiled and said, “Likewise, my friend.”

            Clyde showed a brief smile as well, then bowed his head and braced himself, holding out the Wizard’s staff. Black smoke rose still from the weapon, and the chaos in the sky overhead escalated to a horrible din of thunderclaps as the stolen magic inside the staff began to fracture.

            “Give it _back!”_ the Wizard shouted in desperation.

            The rain pounded harder on the ground, but the flame surrounding Stan’s blade did not extinguish. With one keen stroke, Stan brought down his weapon and broke the Wizard’s white staff in two.

            Flames licked at the splintered edges, and as soon as the staff was cleaved in half, a great burst of energy shot out of it, knocking Stan back in one direction and Clyde in the other.

            “Stan!” Kyle cried out. He grabbed up a Valkyrie shield that had been blown to the ground and rushed against the wind still whipping across the battlefield and threw himself to the ground over Stan, kneeling and keeping the shield firmly between the two of them and the escaping tempest of magic from the field in front of them. “Stan, speak to me,” he begged, setting his free hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Look at me. Please.”

            Stiffly, Stan picked up his head, let out a slight moan of discomfort, and turned onto his side. Frantically, he searched for his sword, but found it quickly. He placed one hand on its hilt, and the other on Kyle’s knee. “I’m here,” he said.

            Despite the howling of the elements around them, Kyle let himself smile for relief. He let tears fall, and bent his head, and held tightly to Stan’s arm, to keep him close. “Yes,” Kyle said, “you are. And you are so brave, my love. You’re so brave. You’re so brave.”

            The winds battled in four directions around them, spiraling and blowing about the steady downpour of rain. Overhead, the clouds roared with thunder, and lightning struck the ruins of the Wizard’s Keep. Then, slowly, the winds began to subside. The rain let up, and a thin grey haze covered the land in its wake. The clouds softened, and the roars turned to rumbles before the sound faded altogether.

            Kyle picked his head up and glanced around to assess the damage from the battlefield. Some stones from the Keep had been scattered about, and soldiers and horses had been tossed in all directions, but he could see no casualties in the surrounding area. Commander Wendy was the first to find her feet again, and as soon as she was standing, she gave orders to the Valkyrie and to her faction of soldiers to continue to hold back the western forces until victory could be declared.

            The Wizard was, once again, nowhere to be seen.

            Both quite fatigued, but determined to see the fight through to its conclusion, Stan and Kyle helped one another up. Stan sheathed his sword when its flames subsided, and the two helped wherever they could to get their allies back on their feet as well, with Feldspar and Thresher soon joining them in their search and aid. In the clear air, Nichole was the first to rush out in search of where the Wizard could have gone, but only when Stan and Kyle reached Princess Kenny did the answer seem to come. Commander Wendy rode to them to report that their adversary was nowhere to be found on the battlefield.

            “Is it possible,” Commander Wendy asked, “that he was so tied to the relic that he was destroyed along with it?”

            “No,” the Princess said when she was standing again. “I saw where he fell, and I will find him.”

            She fitted her final arrow to its bow, and her tear-filled eyes were fixed straight ahead, on the ruins of the Keep. “Please, sire,” she requested of Kyle, “let the final strike in this battle be mine.”

            “Princess…” Kyle tried.

            “Grant me ten minutes, your highness,” the Princess requested. “If he lives, I shall strike him down.”

            “What remained of the Keep was blown over in the tempest,” said Commander Wendy. “No man could survive such destruction.”

            “He is no man,” said Princess Kenny, not turning or wavering in the slightest. “He is a monster. He captured my sister and would do so again. He must be brought to justice.”

            “Lead the search, Princess, and strike should the moment present itself,” Kyle instructed. “Commander, keep the rest of the western troops at bay should they mount another attack.”

            “I leave my officers with the Princess,” Wendy offered. “Call should you require me.” With that, she was gone, back to commanding the front lines.

            “Thank you, sire,” Princess Kenny said to Kyle.

            “You deserve your justice, Princess,” Kyle said. “Inform us of whatever you may find. Can you mount this on your own? Sir Stanley and I will lead the search for the rest of our party.”

            “Do, sire, I can keep my feet,” said the Princess.

            The determination in her eyes was all Kyle needed to know that the Princess’s words were true. He nodded, and entrusted the search of the Keep to her, while he and Stan, along with the Creek, began the search for others in their number who had been pushed back by the blast from the staff.

            A quick walk around led them to two Valkyrie, Princess Karen, and a handful of Stan’s knights, all of whom were shaken but unharmed. The four brought the fallen to their feet, and sent them back on their way—those with more serious injuries were instructed to follow one of the Valkyrie directly back toward the border, to avoid further conflict and see to their wounds as they waited for the others. Princess Karen elected to find and remain with Nichole, until her sister’s own mission was complete.

            “What of Clyde?” Kyle wondered.

            “I didn’t see where he fell,” Stan said. “I can only hope he survived the blast, though he was ready to lose his life if it meant the Wizard’s power would be destroyed.”

            Kyle clasped Stan’s arm, and walked slightly closer. “I certainly hope he lived,” Kyle admitted. “I know that his choice was for the good of all, but I did not want to lose a single ally today.”

            “He’s resilient, sire,” Feldspar offered, “if nothing else. I’ve known the man for years, and he’s survived some truly improbable things.”

            Kyle and Stan both responded with a solemn nod, but neither said another word, though both harbored hope for the ranger.

            When at last they had located Clyde, he was lying several paces off, with his face in the dirt and the two broken halves of the Wizard’s now powerless staff in his hands. His grip had gone limp, however, and the scars on his charred and damaged palms had re-opened; his hands and the ruined staff alike were soaked with blood. Feldspar called out for Valkyrie assistance, but at first glance it appeared unlikely that there was anything that anyone could do for the fallen ranger.

            “Is he breathing?” Stan asked.

            Thresher knealt to survey the damage done, then held two fingers of one hand to Clyde’s neck and held the palm of the other just over his mouth. Thresher waited a few seconds, then responded, “Slowly.”

            “But he’s alive?” Kyle asked.

            “Yes, sire.”

            “He saved us,” Stan remarked.

            “He saved all of us,” Kyle added. “All allied kingdoms of Zaron are now in his debt.” Kyle thought again to his childhood anguish, as he weighed over and over again his choice to leave Clyde alive at the close of the battle for the Stick of Truth. And he knew now more than ever that he had made the right decision. “I’d say,” Kyle continued, “his past transgressions can be forgiven. Wouldn’t you?”

            “Undoubtedly,” said Stan.

            “Without question, sire,” was Thresher’s answer.

            The four were joined, then, by the Valkyrie Bebe and the cleric Token, the latter of whom untied a pouch from his belt, no doubt containing an ointment of sorts that would with any luck revive Clyde’s consciousness.

            “I see no fractures,” said Bebe, kneeling at Clyde’s head and giving him a look over. “The worst of the damage is in his hands. I’ll see what I can do.” She frowned at the broken staff, then asked, “The staff… is it safe to touch?”

            Token studied it for a moment, holding his own staff over it and concentrating on the spot. Then, he nodded and went back to opening the pouch from his belt as he knealt at Clyde’s side. “I sense no power from it,” he said. “Your highness,” he added, looking up at Kyle, “your own confirmation would be greatly welcomed, if you are so inclined.”

            Kyle gave a nod, and concentrated on the broken staff. He knew how to read the energy of the earth, how to recognize magic, and to tell enchanted and un-enchanted things apart, from his training. Though earlier the Wizard’s staff had been angry with dark magic, it now lay dormant and empty. “It is harmless,” Kyle agreed. “Nothing now but another broken stick.”

            “Thank you, sire,” said the Valkyrie. “In that case, then, there’s no time to lose.”

            She took the two halves of the staff from Clyde’s hands and set them at her side, then carefully placed Clyde’s head upon her lap and set about re-bandaging his hands, while Token mixed the contents of the pouch with the contents of a vial he procured from his belt as well. Once Bebe had successfully secured the bandages in place, Token carefully poured the concoction he’d made into Clyde’s mouth. All held their breath for a moment, and then, after a few seconds, Clyde erupted into a fit of coughing, then drew in two heaving breaths.

            “Hush,” Bebe said, “you’ve been terribly wounded. Try to rest.”

            Clyde coughed a few more times, then managed to ask, “What?”

            He glanced up, trying to adjust his eyes, then paled when it seemed he became aware of just how his head was being supported. His eyes widened, and he stared up at the Valkyrie’s face.

            “Am I dead?” Clyde asked.

            “Quite the opposite,” Bebe answered, smiling somewhat.

            Clyde lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Are you certain?” He tried to shift, then winced and did his best to relax. “Oh. All right. Yes. I’m alive,” he reasoned. He struggled with his breathing, then registered the others present. “Did it work?” he asked.

            “It did indeed,” Stan answered. “The staff is broken, and our enemy is powerless.”

            Clyde let out something of a sigh and closed his eyes. “Good,” he said.

            “You were ready,” Kyle said, “to sacrifice yourself for the good of all of Zaron. You may have been a vessel for evil in the past, but your good deeds today have far outweighed what has come before.”

            “Mm-mm,” Clyde refuted, wincing again. “I’m not… I’m not a good person, your highness. I’m just trying to do what I can.”

            “Nonsense,” Bebe said. “I have monitored your exploits at the tavern for some time, now. You always help the desperate. Your heart is in the right place. The actions that you take in your services are commendable, and now I daresay you have outdone yourself.”

            “You’ve the word of a King and a Valkyrie, Clyde,” Stan pointed out.

            Clyde was silent for a few seconds, and it nearly seemed as though he’d lost consciousness again before he said, “All right, then. Thank you.” His eyes opened again, and he asked, “What of the Wizard? Is he dead?”

            Kyle glanced back toward the rubble, and answered, “The Princess is trying to verify that as we speak.”

            “Go, sire,” Token offered. “We’ll see to the ranger’s recovery.”

            “What of the staff?” asked Stan.

            “Leave it with me,” Clyde requested.

            “But it’s powerless now,” Stan said. “It doesn’t have to be your burden.”

            “Let it be, then?” Clyde asked. “Besides, the witch asked for western relics. If I present her with that, she might…” He stiffly managed to lift one hand enough to assess for himself the fresh damage done to it.

            “Understood,” Stan said.

            “Of course,” Kyle agreed. Clyde had last been given the seals on his hands in exchange for years from his life; the ruined remnants of a warlock’s staff were sure to appease the witch Henrietta enough to repeat the casting without asking for more. “Bebe,” Kyle then instructed, “when you can, lead this small party of yours to the Midland border. We will reconvene there when the time comes.”

            “Consider it done, your highness,” said Bebe.

            “Are we in that number?” asked Feldspar.

            “If it’s all the same,” Kyle said, “I’d like the Creek present for the end of all of this. You’ve fought at my side from the beginning. It is only right that you see the end.”

            Feldspar grinned. “Glad to, sire,” he replied.

            That decided, Kyle walked with Stan, Feldspar, and Thresher back to the ruined remains of the Keep. The haze left from the storm was only just beginning to part, and as they approached, Princess Kenny walked out from the rubble. The gathered allied troops stood in wait of instruction, while the recovered numbers of the western forces stood just beyond the foundation of the Keep, as though still awaiting orders from their leader. No weapons were raised from either side. All simply stood in wait for the Princess’s findings. Commander Wendy kept her eyes on the western troops from atop her warhorse; beside her were Nichole, and Princess Karen, the latter of whom seemed to be holding her breath, and her right hand clenched and unclenched round the hilt of her borrowed sword.

            Princess Kenny staggered out, and a few soldiers followed. She blinked dust from her eyes and tried so hard to show that she was not about to cry. Her hands were still clutching her bow, and her one remaining arrow.

            “What news?” called Kyle.

            “Enemy corpses crushed, but none look to be his,” said the Princess with disdain.

            “Surely,” said Commander Wendy, “he could not have disappeared again.”

            Princess Kenny took a few heaving breaths, then turned and trained her arrow on the rubble. “Face me!” she shouted. “Face your end, Wizard! I know you’re in there!”

            Silence fell over the battlefield. The Princess shook, but still held her ground and refused to cry.

            Just then, out from the ashes and smoke walked the tattered Wizard. Stan held up a hand to signal all archers to aim, but he let Princess Kenny fire her arrow first.

            She struck the Wizard in the shoulder, and it was enough to bring the man, who had been walking unevenly from the wreckage, to his knees. The arrow wound bled, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The Wizard, without his power, was now clinging to life, and though Princess Kenny could have struck a mortal blow, all she had done was knock him down.

            Kyle drew a gasp. “Why waste her last arrow on a non-fatal shot?” he wondered.

            “I’m sure she has a plan,” Stan consoled him.

            Kyle nodded, and both fixed their gaze to the scene.

            Princess Kenny walked forward, bow still in hand, until she stood only two paces in front of the dying Wizard. The man was clearly surviving on the last of his strength, but even so managed to pull the arrow from his shoulder and toss it aside.

            “Was it worth it?” the Princess barked down at him. “Your mad delusions of power, your plot to be King of all. Was it worth the effort? You are no King. You can only command armies with no wits of their own. Calling up the dead to do your work! And you would have had my sister among them. _Wouldn’t you?”_

            “Such a fight in you, still after so many years,” said the Wizard.

            “Don’t speak to me as though you know me,” Princess Kenny warned, leaning in and grabbing the man by the collar.

            “Stay, Princess,” said the Wizard. “We aren’t so different, you and I.”

            “I may have been complicit to your trades in the past, Wizard,” Princess Kenny said, her tone dark and solemn, “but you and I are nothing alike.”

            The Wizard managed a feeble grin. “Say what you like,” he said. “You know as well as I that you’re far too powerful to command only one kingdom. Stay with me. Break down that miserable elven barrier and we could rule all of Zaron.” He coughed, and in doing so spewed blood, but continued on: “My western lands could benefit from your beauty.”

            Seething, Kenny struck him across the face, but did not let go of him with her other hand. “My beauty is my own!” she shouted. “I believed for so long that you had taken it from me, that you had weakened me, but now I choose to use all that the gods and spirits have granted me to remove you from these lands for good. If my power comes from my beauty, then so be it—I shall use it for the benefit of my own kingdom. Take a good look at my face, Wizard King, for you will never see it again.”

            Princess Kenny dropped the Wizard to the ground, then drew from her hidden pocket again the box containing her item of power. Princess Kenny removed it from its box and kissed it, and the crystal changed shape in a flash to the form of a long, sparkling pink arrow. The Princess stepped back, fitted the arrow to her borrowed bow, and said, “You shall never again darken the land of Zaron with your tyranny. From this day forward, know and wander the pit of every hell… powerless and unwelcome. Be cast out at every turn, as I’m certain no hell would have even the likes of you, and know that you can never, ever return to these lands, no matter how you beg.”

            The Wizard scrambled to sit up, and stared at the Princess—his eyes wide with, indeed, fear. “Surely we can reach an agreement,” he tried to bargain.

            Princess Kenny narrowed her eyes, and said, “You lost all chance at a bargain with me the day you refused to give me back my sister.”

            With that, she shot the arrow at the man who had declared himself the Wizard King, and it pierced straight through his chest. The Wizard let out a long, horrific wail as the arrow began to gleam brighter and brighter with spring pink light, engulfing the man until nothing could be seen of him. When the light died down, the Wizard was gone, and the arrow stuck into the ground. After an instant, it shifted its shape back to a flat red crystal. Princess Kenny discarded her bow, stepped forward, picked up the crystal, and tucked it away again into its tiny box.

            “Princess?” Commander Wendy asked.

            “It is done,” the Princess said in return. She turned to the Valkyrie, then to her sister, and then to the others. “We’ll be plagued by his wickedness no more.”

            “Is he dead?” Kyle and Stan asked together.

            “Worse,” said Princess Kenny. “Though most of the work was already done. With his staff destroyed and his power therefore shattered, banishment would already have been more effective than it was at the close of the last battle, but I took additional precautions. I have cursed him. He will be confined to the hells until his life runs out, and there he shall be ripped apart. His spirit, should any exist within him, shall therefore have no chance of joining the aether. He is gone from Zaron, permanently.”

            Sighs of relief practically echoed across the battlefield. Though the west would remain enemy territory, the worst scourge of them all was defeated.

            Losing her balance somewhat in the aftermath, Princess Kenny stumbled back toward her allies, and let Kyle and Stan together catch her and keep her upright. “You were very brave, Princess,” Kyle complimented her. Smiling, he added, “And it seems your item of power has not lost its shine after all.”

            Princess Kenny gasped, and looked up at him. “I suppose you would remember that, wouldn't you?” she said. Smiling sadly, she added, “I’m so sorry, your highness. From this day on, I wear my battlescars with pride.”

            “I’m glad to hear it,” Kyle said. “You will make a strong and compassionate Queen one day,” he added, but instantly hoped that the Princess would not read into the words that he meant he would accept her as Queen of Larnion.

            But the Princess merely said, “Thank you, your highness. Coming from you, that’s a fine compliment indeed.”

            Before anything else could be done or decided, the western army gathered round the toppled Keep. Some bows and lances still were raised, but none moved to strike. Stan and Wendy held back their troops, and Kyle looked to Kenny to determine which of the two of them should speak. Princess Kenny nodded to him, and so Kyle mounted his horse, rode to the top of the rubble that had been the Keep, and held aloft his still gleaming staff… not in victory, not yet, but as a beacon to call all attention to what he had to declare.

            “Soldiers of the west,” he proclaimed. “Your Wizard King is vanquished, and your capitol has fallen. You know me. I am Kyle, High King of the Drow Elves. For countless ages, our kingdoms have been enemies. This may not change, and certainly not within a single day. But I ask you now, you leaderless few who remain, most of whom must remember the war for the Stick of Truth… I ask you today: what will you do? What is your choice? Will the bloodshed continue, or will you admit defeat, and let us pass through today in peace?”

            There was a rush of quiet, and then, slowly, from various places in the surrounding immediate terrain, white flags were raised on pikes and sticks and scraps of iron. Once again, Kyle had marched as King with his soldiers to the west, and once again, Larnion and its allies had won.

            The battle was over.

– – –

            Before the troops could depart for the Midland border, Kyle called for a dismount in order for numbers to be counted, and plans made for those most in need of infirmary care once they again reached their camp on the other side.

            Kyle, Stan, and Wendy each supervised the count and sent some of the wounded ahead, and when they reached the end, Kyle tugged Stan aside, looked him over, and asked, “Do you want to go ahead with the others? You’re wounded, I can’t fathom what would happen if…”

            “I’m not leaving your side,” Stan promised. “I’ll be all right. Though I admit,” he added, “I’d prefer not to remove my armor until whatever injuries I’ve incurred can be tended to.”

            Kyle nodded his understanding, and placed one hand over Stan’s heart and the other lightly near his wounded shoulder. “We made it,” Kyle whispered, managing a small smile, though his heart pounded with hope for Stan’s swift recovery.

            “What did I tell you?” Stan said proudly. “You’re a fine King; you led us to victory, just as I knew you would.”

            Kyle’s smile broadened, and he said, “We did it together.”

            Stan smiled as well, and brushed a hand against Kyle’s cheek, but went no further; not yet, not with so many gathered nearby. Grateful, the two then led one another back to where the others were passing around water and beginning their remount.

            Given this brief moment of respite, however, the two Princesses, the inseparable who had been forcefully separated for far too long, left the horses they had been given to find one another. Karen slipped around her Valkyrie companions, and Kenny broke from a discussion with Commander Wendy, so that the two could share a moment of peace and warmth at last.

            “Kenny!” Karen exclaimed, running forward as fast as she could.

            Kenny caught Karen in her arms, and the sisters fell to the ground together. Karen clung tightly to Kenny and sobbed, while Kenny cradled Karen in her arms and kissed her sister’s hair several times over. “I’m so sorry,” were the only words that Kenny said as she gathered Karen closer. She was speaking to her sister, yes, and to everyone present. She let out a long cry, then wept softly as she repeated, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

            After giving the sisters a much-needed moment, Kyle exchanged a glance with Stan, then walked over and knealt before the two. “Princess Kenny,” he said.

            Kenny choked out a sob, but said nothing more.           

            Kyle let out an understanding sigh, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get the two of you cleaned up and rested,” he said. “It’s finally over. We’re bringing you home.”

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the extended hiatus between chapters! I took November off to work on an original piece during NaNoWriMo, and then was unexpectedly pushed back further by holidays and a busy January. I wanted to get this chapter up as soon as I could, and the next chapter will not be far behind; it is my hope and current plan to have it posted by next Friday, the 22nd. Thank you all so much for your patience, and for your support of this story! Many thanks as well to my beta reader, RosieDenn, for her assistance with editing this chapter.


	16. XVI. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the party returns to Larnion, and Kyle reflects on his duties as King, and on what is yet to come.

 

            The Valkyrie pulled the corpse of the venomous earth dragon from the rubble of the Keep before they departed, and rigged their horses to haul it behind them as an offering to the witch in the Midlands for the party’s safe return. The Creek rode at the very end of the party, armed and ready, to ensure that the western surrender held, while Kyle and Stan rode at the front, with the Princesses, Clyde, and Commander Wendy close behind them. The air began to thin and turn to mist around them as they rode into the witch Henrietta’s claimed bog in the thick of the Midlands, and the witch herself soon appeared before them, pipe between her teeth, as she scrutinized the travelers.

            “Princesses, eh?” she said. “I’m not too fond of more royalty crossing through here. Unless you’ve brought something that could sway me.”

            “Will a freshly vanquished dragon do?” Stan offered.

            The witch raised an eyebrow. “You lot certainly keep busy, don’t you?” she said.

            Stan signaled for the riders to part, so that the Valkyrie hauling the earth dragon’s body could come through to present the spoils to the witch. Henrietta stepped forward to examine the carcass, grinned somewhat, and blew a cloud of smoke over it. Once she had, the dragon’s body disappeared, and Henrietta looked up at the riders. “Fine enough,” she said. “I suppose you’ve won passage here and there as you must from now on.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said to her. “It is my hope that we need not utilize this path often, but we’re grateful for your assistance.”

            “It’s not assistance, highness,” Henrietta said. “You pay me, I pay you.”

            “Understood,” Kyle said, not wanting to argue with a witch.

            “So,” Henrietta said, “any other services needed, or will you be leaving me alone now?”

            “Actually…” Kyle said, and he looked back to Clyde.

            Clyde was not faring well, given the final blow he’d taken on the battlefield, but he’d managed to keep himself upright and conscious, and dismounted with some difficulty as he was barely able to grip his horse’s reins. He stepped forward, and had only just held out his bandaged hands to Henrietta before she commented, “Again?”

            “Under different circumstances,” Clyde answered.

            “You don’t reek of dark magic this time.”

            “No?” Clyde said. “That’s a relief.”

            “Then what do you want from me?” asked Henrietta.

            “I… I need your wards cast again,” Clyde asked. “Please. I’m afraid these will take too long to heal otherwise. Maybe even heal wrong. I don’t know, I have no way of knowing.”

            Henrietta let out a huff of breath, and stuck her pipe between her teeth again. “One year for each, then,” she said, walking up to the ranger. “This isn’t a favor.”

            “I—wait,” Clyde said. From his belt, he withdrew the two splintered halves of the Wizard’s staff, handling them carefully as he presented them to Henrietta. “Will these do as payment instead?”

            “What do I want with a broken stick?” Henrietta said flatly.

            “It’s… it used to be a dark magic relic,” Clyde told her. “Used by the former Wizard King himself.”

            “Huh. Former?” Henrietta asked, slightly intrigued. “You’re telling me he’s dead?”

            “Gone until death, anyway.”

            Henrietta looked from the broken relic to Clyde, and then to the rest of the party. “You’re marginally more interesting a group than most who ask for passage through here,” Henrietta said. “Fine, hand it over. Even if it’s powerless, it’ll still be a boon to my collection.”

            Clyde passed the two halves to her, and Henrietta held them for a moment, studying them, before they disappeared in her grasp. She then took two steps forward and made a swift slicing motion upward with both hands in the air over Clyde’s. The motion caused his bandages to fall away, and Henrietta barely hesitated a second before drawing simultaneously into the air above Clyde’s palms a rune with one hand and a sigil with the other. Outlines of the markings appeared in the air by way of the smoke from her pipe, which turned a hazy grey as she then swept her hands down through them and grabbed Clyde’s hands, pressing her thumbs hard into his palms.

            Something about the motion spooked a few of the horses, and Stan and Commander Wendy were quick to calm them down. Clyde let out a sharp cry from the contact, but within seconds, the witch’s action was done. She studied her work, nodded to herself, inhaled from her pipe, then exhaled a long cloud of smoke into the air above. “Go on, then,” she said. “Unless anyone else has another request. And you,” she added to Clyde specifically. “Take better care that those don’t break. I’ll expect a bigger payment next time.”

            Clyde nodded, examined the re-cast marks on his hands, then returned to his horse and mounted, still with some difficulty. “Are you well?” Stan asked him. “There are infirmary carts available…”

            Clyde shook his head. “Let me make it past here with my pride, at least,” he asked. “She’s helpful, but I refuse to let her know my limits.”

            “Understood,” Stan said.

            “Well?” Henrietta asked to the rest of the party.

            “Passage is enough for today,” Kyle answered. “I’m glad we could reach an agreement on payments,” he added, remembering that the witch did not accept thanks.

            Henrietta said nothing, but turned and walked away into the fog. Though she would never say whether or not she was pleased or impressed with her payments, she had, all the same, done Kyle and his allies a great service, and thus a new and unexpected alliance was forged between Larnion and a guardian of the Western Midlands.

            Once the party had gone well past the witch’s domain, Clyde resigned himself to ride behind with the infirm, though the Valkyrie Bebe offered to ride beside him, to assure he would keep consciousness.

            Stan made it as far as the Larnion border before collapsing from exhaustion and the trauma of the wounds he sustained in the fight. At Kyle’s instant command, Stan was taken to a private infirmary cart, where both elven and Valkyrie medics promised Kyle that Stan would be well cared for.

            Kyle asked Wendy to lead the fighting party back into Larnion, and she obliged, much to Kyle’s gratitude. The Princesses rode toward the center of the party, well protected and hidden from any who might be looking on. Despite Kyle’s own fatigue, he refused to rest until he saw to the entire party’s safe return to Larnion. And while they rode on, Kyle insisted upon keeping his horse alongside the infirmary carts. Several warriors had sustained injuries, and Kyle wished the best for all of them, but his heart ached for the moment that he could see for himself that Stan was all right.

            The party rode until they had returned to their camp on Larnion’s side of the Midland border. The Princesses were given a private tent together, and medics to tend to them, and Kyle returned to his own. After his attendants had come and gone to assist with the removal of his armor, Kyle washed at a basin his attendants had provided, then donned again a crimson robe. He then knealt, quietly, at the center of the tent with the staff of his ancestors in his hands.

            He could feel his heartbeat, but the staff gleamed brighter now that it was again within the borders of Larnion. It had been his father’s, and his grandfather’s, and on for several generations; dynasties, even. One day, it would be Ike’s. Though dynasties rose and ended in Larnion with different family lines, the staff itself had been hewn from the wood and metals that made up the very heart of Larnion’s palace. Rulers came and went, but all had one thing in common, and that was the ability to harness and protect the very heart of the forest—it was not a weapon so much as it was a guiding beacon of home.

            “Thank you,” Kyle whispered to it. “Struggles are sure to remain, but this battle is over. It is finally over.”

            With that, he kissed the staff and dismissed it to the aether, until the time came again to call upon it for aid. Kyle took a long, deep breath, and when he let it out, he cradled his right hand in his left, his fingertips brushing the emerald of his mother’s ring, and he felt again the weight of his father’s crown on his head.

            “It is finally over,” Kyle whispered again, this time to the memory of his parents. “I hope that you can find peace in the knowledge that Larnion is safe again from harm. Our foe was indeed formidable, but you did not die in vain. I shall always keep our home safe. I promise.”

            A pit opened in Kyle’s stomach when he remembered the last time he had visited his parents’ crypt, and he made note to return to the graveyard soon, lighter in heart, to apologize for his outburst on the day the false Princess had revealed his lineage to him. He would smooth things over with his council, and make the changes that needed to be made for a more constructive one in his continued reign, but Kyle had accepted his mother’s human lineage with pride, now, and would rule just as he was, bearing no shame.

            He stood, then, and paced until a messenger arrived to inform him that the infirmary tents were fully reincorporated. At Kyle’s request, the messenger said, Stan had been granted his own private space for treatment of his wounds. Kyle thanked the messenger and followed him to the very tent, asking to be taken directly to Stan. A Valkyrie healer was tending to him, and Stan was already sleeping, worn out from the long, arduous battle.

            “Is he all right?” Kyle asked the Valkyrie.

            The woman turned toward him and smiled. “He needs rest, my lord,” she said. “But he will be all right. He is weak from fatigue, and from many blows on the battlefield. There will be few scars, and he will recover fully. But he must rest.”

            “I… I understand, yes,” Kyle said. “Thank you.” He looked over at Stan, watching him breathe in and out, then looked back at the Valkyrie and asked, “May I sit with him for a while?”

            “It’s best not to wake him,” the Valkyrie advised.

            “I know. I just wish to be near him.”

            The Valkyrie nodded, and Kyle stepped quietly closer to the cot. Stan’s breathing was measured and slow as he slept. His face and hair had been washed clean, and the only injury on his face was a small scratch below his right eye, which would heal without scarring. His arms and shoulders were exposed above the light blanket draped over him, and a few spots on his skin were wrapped or fixed with bandages. The worst injury he had sustained had indeed been the first—several bandages covered much of his right shoulder. His sword lay on a table to the side, roughened and scorched from the fight but not beyond repair, and his armor lay to the far side of the room, ready for cleaning by the squires when the time came.

            Carefully, Kyle sat on the stool beside Stan’s cot, and he lightly lay both of his hands over Stan’s left, which was closest to Kyle. Stan did not stir, so Kyle leaned down and gingerly placed a kiss on Stan’s left shoulder.

            When Kyle sat back, he stroked one thumb along the backs of Stan’s fingers where he held his hand, and then Kyle looked at Stan’s face, and felt himself smile. “Hello, love,” Kyle said in a whisper. “I am not here to wake you, only to keep you company. Rest as long as you must. You fought so bravely, and you’ve only just returned from such a long journey besides.” Tears coming to his eyes, he added, “I’m so proud of you.”

            Kyle gently moved one hand to sweep Stan’s bangs to one side, keeping them out of his eyes, knowing that Stan was sleeping so deeply he would not be disturbed into waking from the action.

            “You know, Stan,” Kyle said, continuing to speak quietly, “I remember the day we met. In such detail, darling, you would think it was a book I read each and every night. Neither of us had had a friend before that day. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How we can find ourselves here, a dozen years later, and I cannot imagine my life without you.

            “What I remember most of all, Stan, is how eagerly you chose the path of a knight. I have wondered, at times, and I don’t believe I’ve ever told you, what might have been had you chosen something different. Had you taken the path of the council, or any other part of the court. But no. My Stan, you are a knight. I believe you were born to be a knight. You uphold the code in everything you do. The kingdom rests within your heart. You are the bravest man I have ever known.

            “It’s utterly absurd that the council refuses to consider you a nobleman. You have risked your life and reputation for this kingdom, and I… I hardly feel like I can hold a candle to you. I adore you. I love you. I will do all that I can to care for you. Rest well, my love. Dream well. We are almost home.”

            Kyle bent to lightly kiss Stan’s forehead.

            “I’ll return,” Kyle promised, drawing back. “I promise that I will be here by your side when you wake, Stan. I promise.” He paused a moment, then took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. When Kyle opened his eyes again, he fixed his Sight on the fabric in the air around Stan, which shimmered with the pulse of Stan’s heart. Nothing was frayed; Stan would heal very soon.

            Kyle smiled, then said to Stan just above a whisper, “My bravest knight. My dearest friend. My only love. May we yet someday weave a future together.” Kyle stood, then bent again to leave a kiss in Stan’s hair.

            Kyle then left Stan in the capable hands of the Valkyrie medic, and left the quiet of the private tent. Until Stan woke, there was business that Kyle needed to see to.

            And, indeed, as soon as Kyle had exited the infirmary tent, a young elven squire approached him and bowed.

            “Your highness?” asked the boy.

            “Yes?” Kyle asked.

            “Princess Kenny has requested a word with you, my lord,” the squire said.

            Kyle regarded the boy, nearly wanting to refuse him and send him away, but there were several words that Kyle wanted to exchange with the Princess, mostly in the form of questions. He knew that he would need to space such questions out over time, for the council needed to hear Kenny’s intentions in her own words, but Kyle at the very least wanted peace of mind that Kenny had not intended any harm. Or at least, not as much harm as her double had caused.

            “Take me to her, then,” Kyle asked the squire. The boy bowed, and led Kyle into a separate tent, guarded again by two Valkyrie.

            Inside the tent, the light was warm from the gleam of a few lanterns, and there were two cots positioned at the back. Only one was occupied. Princess Kenny sat on the cot in her tattered dress, her body folded protectively over her sister. Princess Karen lay sleeping with her head on Kenny’s lap, and Kenny was tenderly smoothing back her sister’s hair.

            When the squire announced Kyle, Kenny picked her head up, and her eyes and cheeks were red from crying. Her golden hair had been combed and cut to her shoulder blades to remove the matted damage, and a few strands stuck to her face from her tears. And despite Kenny’s state, Kyle let out a light sigh of relief.

            _This_ was Princess Kenny. This was the lady who, despite being a terror on the battlefield, was caring and understanding at heart. The truly noble lady who would always put her sister above herself… above even her kingdom. Which, so it seemed, was precisely what Kenny had done.

            “Sire,” she said, her voice broken, “I am so deeply sorry. I’ve hurt you.”

            “Yes,” Kyle said, “you have. But wounds can heal.”

            He noticed a chair at the edge of the tent, picked it up, and carried it in a few paces until he placed it down a safe distance away from the Princesses’ cot. Kyle sat, folded his hands upon his lap, and said, “Were you aware that your likeness had been taken by a dragon?”

            Kenny bowed her head, closing in even more protectively around Karen.

            “Only when it was too late,” Kenny said. “The warlocks wanted passage through the borders of your lands. I was told that it was to gain access to my nation’s ocean ports, but I had forgotten just how powerful a barrier your kingdom is, sire. I never foresaw this.”

            “Then why sign a treatise with the warlocks at all?” Kyle had to know.

            “They had my sister,” Kenny said, lifting her head and staring Kyle right in the eyes. She blinked out a few more tears, but her face showed only resolve. “I would do anything for her. I would wage war with the gods for her. Our parents are away so often, sire. Our older brother perished at sea when we were all so young, and I think they continue to sail as if to find him, to the point that I have practically lost them, too. Karen is all I have. You must know what that’s like.”

            Kyle felt a dull ache in his stomach, and he nodded. “I do,” he said.

            “I thought that I could outwit them,” Kenny said. “I thought that you and I might join forces if only to amass a greater army. I never intended to harm you. You are my ally, sire, you are my friend. That my paladin was so easily convinced by my double is beyond my comprehension, and I _will_ punish him for it, but I…”

            “It’s all right,” Kyle said. “We can discuss this more when we return to the palace, and when we have all had adequate rest. I only wanted to confirm that you were not allied with the warlocks by choice. That you did not know of the threat of the dragon beforehand, and sign regardless, with knowing intent against Larnion.”

            “Never, my lord,” Kenny insisted. “I may use a less than noble trick or two in battle and trades, but I would never do damage outright to you or your kingdom.”

            “Or to the people who reside in it?” Kyle asked.

            “Them, too,” said Kenny.

            “Then that, for now, is all I needed to hear,” Kyle said. He rose, and walked over to Kenny and her sister.

            Kenny winced, but Kyle placed his hands gently on her shoulders, then carefully tilted Kenny’s chin up and examined first her expression, and then the burn on her jaw. He watched her blink. Kyle smiled, and patted the Princess’s arm. “Rest,” he said. “We have many more things to discuss, but for now, I’m glad the two of you are safe.”

            “Thank you, my lord,” Kenny said in a whisper. She managed a smile for him, then closed herself around her sister again, and began to sing to her, softly.

            Kyle left the tent still with a bit of pressure on his chest, for the stress of the discussions that still needed to come among the councils, but relieved, at least, that the Princesses were safe from harm.

            He walked around the camp to check in on his army and exchange words of gratitude with the Valkyrie, then ended up back at Stan’s tent. Kyle found himself unable to go back to his own, and instead walked in again to sit at his lover’s side. The Valkyrie tending to Stan, who introduced herself to Kyle as Rebecca, ordered another cot brought in, upon which Kyle fell asleep, exhausted from battle, and both scared and hopeful for the days to come.

* * *

            Days before Kyle’s ninth birthday, his father accompanied him to a sigil-writing lesson in the library. The Elven King sat to one side, watching as Kyle’s tutor demonstrated writing sigils in ink and then in gold leaf, and as Kyle copied down each quill stroke carefully. Kyle was cautious not to spill any ink or gold leaf onto the polished wooden library table, and when his pages of work had dried, he held his practice book delicately in both hands and walked over to present them to his father.

            The King looked over Kyle’s work, and Kyle’s ears drooped when it seemed his father was taking too long, but he perked up again when his father smiled. Kyle’s father had been King for fifteen years prior to meeting Kyle’s mother, and for twenty years prior to Kyle’s birth. He could have a somber way about him, but his eyes, green like Kyle’s, were kind. He wore his brown hair quite short, and Kyle always thought that the color was a compliment to the King’s elaborate wooden crown.

            “Nicely done,” Kyle’s father complimented him, handing back the practice book. “You are becoming quite the talented spellweaver, aren’t you?”

            “I do try,” Kyle assured him.

            “And I hear you still favor flame magic,” his father said, “is that correct?”

            Kyle nodded, and held his book close to his chest while his tutor answered, “The Prince seems to be taking after Her Majesty the Queen with regards to magical ability. I… would advise your majesty that he keep his lessons short to begin with, when it comes to field practice.”

            “I see,” said the King, standing. “Well, we shall see about all that when the time comes, once his skills have advanced.”

            “Of course, sire.”

            The King looked down at Kyle, and smiled and held out a hand and asked, “Kyle, would you like to accompany me for a moment? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

            “Shall I bring my book?” Kyle asked.

            “No need, for now,” his father said.

            Kyle nodded, left his practice book with his tutor, and took his father’s hand, walking with him through the grand halls to a place in the palace Kyle had never been before; that he only knew existed from conversations adults would have around him. They soon stood before a large weight-bearing pillar at the center of the palace, which rose up from the ground and through every storey and into the sky, which fortified the palace like the trunk of a sturdy and ancient tree.

            Kyle’s father stopped, and knealt in front of him, and Kyle turned to look at him, though he soon felt distracted and looked up again at the pillar. It was every color of the palace, iridescent greens shimmering through the beautiful copper and bronze which was woven into the many different breeds of wood knit together and sustaining the palace around them.

            In awe, Kyle looked back at his father and asked, “What is this place?”

            “This is the heart of Larnion, Kyle,” his father said. “This is the direct center of the palace, where we draw our greatest strength as a kingdom of peace, a border protecting our allies from the dark forces to the west. The spirits permitted our ancestors to build on this very spot many, many hundreds of years ago, and we honor them with this.”

            Kyle’s father held out his hands, and into them soon appeared a short, gleaming staff. Kyle gasped and reached out to touch it, then drew his hands back. “It’s all right,” his father assured him. “One day, you’ll be able to summon this, too. This is the staff of our ancestors. It is like the north star to us, always connected to the heart of Larnion. We elves are already very well connected to the threads of the world, and can use magic by weaving spells. Humans need a bit of help to connect, and many use objects bestowed with concentrated magic by the gods and spirits. Very rarely do we use objects ourselves, but an item such as this staff serves a noble purpose, to amplify our abilities if we find ourselves in need of assistance from the heart of our land. Someday, Kyle, should you ever require it, it will serve you well in times of need.”

            “Need for what?” Kyle wondered.

            “Peace,” his father answered, “and protection. That is what Larnion stands for. We protect our lands and look after the spirits that live in the world around us, and they respond by giving us Sight to know them, and to know the magic of the world. You are becoming a very strong spellweaver already, and I want you to know that it is your duty to honor the threads of the world whenever you use magic. Thank the spirits for the gifts they have given you. Use your magic to protect our kingdom from danger, and to keep our people and our allies happy.”

            Kyle nodded a few times, his eyes still on the staff. Though faint and new, he was sure he could already feel a connection to it. “I can do that,” he promised his father.

            The King dismissed the staff to the aether, and patted the top of Kyle’s head. “I know you can,” he said proudly. “Now. One more thing today.”

            Kyle followed as his father led him away from the pillar, and took his hand again as they walked to the council chambers in the eastern wing. It was the first time Kyle had been inside the meeting hall, as well, and he shied back a bit as his father led him in.

            “Is something wrong?” the King asked.

            Kyle shook his head, but gripped his father’s hand more tightly. When they came to the center of the room, near the long table, Kyle’s father stopped again and knealt in front of Kyle. Placing his hands on each of Kyle’s shoulders, his father asked, “What is it?”

            Not wanting to say the wrong thing, Kyle hesitated a moment, then said, “This is where you meet, right? With the council? All of the advisors and attendants and my tutors and the clerics?”

            “It is, yes.”

            “This is where you talk about what will happen if there’s war.”

            “Yes.”

            “Why did you bring me here?” Kyle asked. “Are you talking about war now? Please tell me there isn’t going to be one. I don’t want to fight.”

            “Oh, Kyle, you wouldn’t be expected to, even if there were,” his father assured him. “I only brought you here today because I think that it is time for you to begin to see what goes on in palace affairs outside of your lessons. You make me and your mother so proud, Kyle, and we know that one day, when you become King, you will uphold the legacy of this kingdom with grace and honor. I’d like to add something to your lessons in a few years’ time. You’re still young now, but I wanted to prepare you so that you will know.”

            “Okay,” Kyle said.

            “I’d like for you to join me and your mother at some of these meetings someday very soon,” his father said, “so that you might see how strategies come about, and how we serve our kingdom in all matter of things. No more than once each month, if even that, and not for some time, yet.”

            Kyle sighed. “Meetings are dull,” he said.

            His father laughed. “Yes, they can be,” he admitted. “But it will be good for you to learn.”

            “Yes, Father,” Kyle said with a nod.

            His father smiled, then stood, and took Kyle by the hand again to tour him around the room. When they were done, they returned to the main hall, and Kyle’s father asked him, “Did you enjoy visiting these areas of the palace today?”

            “I did,” Kyle said. “I’m glad you liked my sigil work, too.”

            “I did indeed,” said his father. “You have excellent form.”

            Kyle beamed, then said, “Thank you for telling me some king stuff. Mother tells me, ‘everything in time.’”

            “Yes,” said the King. “Bit by bit, you will learn.”

            “Like weaving a tapestry?” asked Kyle.

            “Yes, precisely. All the little fibers that make up our kingdom and your duties will form a clearer picture for you one day.”

            “I suppose that makes sense,” Kyle said. “I suppose,” he relented, “seeing you and Mother carry on a meeting won’t be _all_ bad.”

            “I’m glad to hear it.”

            “I liked the pillar best today, though,” Kyle said.

            “I’ve always liked that place, too,” his father said. “I brought your mother there once many years ago, before we were married, when I knew how important she was to me. It is a good place to be the most honest you can be to yourself and to those you care about, as it symbolizes the trust we’ve woven with the spirits.”

            Kyle lit up. “May I bring my friends to see it?” he asked.

            “Oh. Oh, I suppose,” his father allowed. “So long as they respect it.”

            Kyle thanked his father, and sought out Stan later in the day. The two rogues he’d befriended in the forest, Kyle decided, could see it some other time. He wanted to show Stan first.

            When the two stood before it, the sun was setting, and the pillar shimmered with the changing light. “It’s beautiful,” Stan said. “What is it?”

            “Father says it’s the heart of Larnion,” Kyle answered. “And that I am to grow up to protect it.”

            “When you’re King someday?” Stan asked.

            “Yes.” Kyle paused, and took Stan’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I hope by then I’ll know what it is I am to do.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “There’s so much,” Kyle said. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he gazed up at the wonder of the pillar at the heart of his kingdom. “I am to conduct meetings, and be diplomatic, and care for my ward, and for everyone, and protect the border, and so many, many things, Stan. I hope that I’ll be ready someday.”

            “I’m sure you will be,” Stan said. “Every time I hear you talk about magic, and the spirits, and the threads of the world, you… well, there’s a light around you. I can tell you care about it very much, and the light must mean that the spirits care about you enough for you to reflect magic like that.”

            Kyle beamed, and turned, and hugged Stan tightly. “Oh, you are indeed my best friend in all the world, Stan,” he said. “You always know just what to say. Promise you’ll do your best to help me when I am King?”

            Stan hugged him in return, and said, “It’s a promise.”

* * *

            When the war party returned to the palace, Kyle accompanied Stan and the Valkyrie medic to a private infirmary wing. Kyle ordered a few guards to see to the Princesses’ safety, and told them not to release anyone from the prison until he could do it in person. But Kyle could think of nothing he wanted to do more than stay by Stan’s side. He had promised, after all.

            It was not long after they had entered the infirmary that Stan’s eyes blinked open, and no sooner had he been awake a few seconds than he smiled up at Kyle. Kyle drew in a gasp, then smiled as well and gently bent over Stan, kissing his face several times over. “Oh, my Stan,” he said. “My valiant, brave, noble Stan. You’re all right.”

            When Kyle drew back a little, Stan stiffly brought up his right arm, and brushed his fingertips against Kyle’s cheek. Stan smiled again, and said, “My Kyle.” Kyle’s heart fluttered, and he set his left hand over Stan’s right. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

            “I’m here,” Kyle said, letting a few tears fall. “I’m here for you, my love. And I promise, I will care for you until you have healed.” Whispering, he added, with hope, “And every day thereafter.”

            And Stan did not protest. There was love and gratitude in his eyes as he gazed up at Kyle, and he swept his thumb slowly back and forth against Kyle’s cheek. Stan looked ready to say something, but winced from his injuries and had to steady his breath.

            Kyle brought Stan’s right hand to his lips, kissed it tenderly, then warmed his own hands in order to pass that warmth to Stan, who looked more relaxed as the sensation spread.

            “Thank you,” Stan said in a whisper.

            “Of course, darling,” Kyle replied fondly.

            Stan drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Where are we?” he asked.

            “The palace infirmary,” Kyle told him. He gently swept the fingers of his right hand through Stan’s hair, and smiled as he continued, “We’re home, Stan. You’re home. You’re here with me.”

            Stan smiled as well, and looked into Kyle’s eyes, and promised, “As I shall ever be, my love.”

            Kyle nodded, and let fall more tears when no words came to him as a response. No words were needed. He kissed Stan’s hand twice again, the heel of his palm and the backs of his fingers, and let out a sigh of gratitude that the world had brought them, and kept them, together.

            “You need to rest,” Kyle said soothingly, after a moment. “You’ll be well soon.”

            Stan let out a light hum of understanding, and squeezed Kyle’s hand as best he could. “Even as I rest,” he said, “I would be grateful for company.”

            “And so you shall have it,” Kyle promised. He leaned in and kissed Stan’s forehead, then shifted to sit in the chair beside the bed. “Would… would you like me to read to you?”

            Stan tilted his head to look at Kyle again, and smiled as he said, “I’d like that very much.”

            Kyle smiled in return. He drew up Stan’s left hand to gently kiss his fingers, then took a book from the table beside the bed and set it open in his lap. Keeping hold of Stan’s hand, Kyle began to read, just as Stan had done for Kyle all those years ago.

            And when Stan drifted back to sleep, Kyle looked at him fondly, his heart full as he wished, so desperately, that the future would find them like this again, though in times without sickness or pain. That someday they could lie side by side without worry, and read one another to sleep out of nothing but the sheer joy of doing so.

            Kyle sat up a little, kissed Stan’s cheek, and said, “I love you.” He then sat back down, made a pillow out of his arms for his own head, and settled in at the side of Stan’s bed, wanting, always, to be Stan’s first sight upon waking again.

– – –

            Over the next three days, Kyle sent soldiers and a few Valkyrie to patrol the western border, but no threats came from the warlocks’ land. The surrender held, and all of Larnion seemed to breathe with relief. With much of the war party still recovering from the journey and the fight, Kyle’s absolute reign held, and with the few council members he trusted, he began to draft a declaration to be sent out to all the towns and villages of Larnion. It would be finalized with Princess Kenny’s agreement, as the truth of her capture and of the dragon needed to be revealed. And there was still the matter of ensuring that the engagement was indeed null and void.

            The Princesses were still recuperating from the wearing affects of their long capture, and they had been given private quarters, where the sisters supported each other in their recovery. Kyle performed his own duties by checking in on them at morning and nightfall, and ordered new garments to be made for both of them by his palace weavers, to keep them in comfort; he looked in on the wounded soldiers as well, while they were recovering with the aid of magical healing, but his days began and ended with visits to Stan.

            Stan’s health had indeed begun to improve with rest, but as he was human, his recovery took a bit longer than the elven knights. Kyle sat with him and held a cold cloth to his forehead as an elven medic stitched up the wound on Stan’s right shoulder, and Kyle brewed a pot of healing tea for Stan every morning and evening, warming it again with a touch of his hands if the tea sat and cooled while the two of them talked.

            As Stan trusted Kyle with his life, so he trusted him with his sword, and Kyle carefully sharpened and polished the blade, restoring its shine as Stan rested. The metal of Stan’s sword, Kyle realized after a few routine cleanings, bore new marks on either side of the blade, and not just from the battle. They were scorch marks, negligible from a distance but shimmering and clear when held close at hand; proof that the sword had welcomed its flame enchantment and would again, when such time arose.

            On the fourth day after the battle, the pain from Stan’s injuries had subsided, and he dressed in his uniform and returned to Kyle’s side, and the two of them made rounds together to ensure that the others were faring better as well. The Princesses admitted to needing one more day of rest and proper nourishment before commencing with diplomatic discussions, and so Kyle brought Stan with him to the hidden clearing in the forest where he sounded out Thresher’s call to break the illusion around the Creek’s cottage.

            “Huh,” Stan remarked, as the little stone cottage flickered into view.

            Kyle laughed, and kissed Stan’s cheek. “As I told you,” he said.

            “It somehow still isn’t quite what I expected,” Stan admitted, still looking perplexed.

            Kyle laughed again, and took hold of Stan’s hand as he led him forward and knocked at the finely-marked door. Feldspar answered the knock, grinning at the two of them for a second before saying, “I was wondering why I hadn’t heard word from you since the battle, sire.”

            “You know how diplomacy is,” Kyle said with an exaggerated shrug.

            Feldspar laughed, and invited them into the cottage, where again a modest fire burned in the kitchen hearth. Kyle and Stan both at once were relieved to see, as well, that the lightning scar at the corner of Feldspar’s mouth had healed up nicely, and its redness had started to fade.

            “Here to retrieve your ward, then?” Feldspar asked.

            “Unless you’d like to keep him,” Kyle said jokingly.

            “He’s all yours.” Feldspar cupped a hand to one side of his mouth to call into the other rooms, “Young lord, you have visitors.”

            In an instant, Ike rounded the corner from the back of the cottage, his ears perking up and a slight glow appearing around him when he noticed Kyle in the doorway. He rushed forward and threw his arms around Kyle’s waist; Kyle laughed a little and hugged his ward in return. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you, Kyle!” Ike exclaimed. “The Creek told me the battle was over. Is everything all right? May I come home?”

            “Yes, Ike. Of course you can,” Kyle said. “It’s so good to see you, too.” When Ike stepped back, Kyle noticed, “What are you wearing?”

            It was, Kyle realized, for the best that Ike had not kept to wearing a single evening robe throughout his now weeks-long stay with the Creek. Ike wore instead a tunic dyed to the green of the forest, brown trousers, leather boots, and a belt round his waist that carried two small daggers. “Hope you don’t mind, sire,” Feldspar said. “You did say the young lord could hunt with us.”

            “Oh, yes, true,” Kyle said. To Ike, he asked, “Have you been safe? Have you enjoyed your stay?”

            “I have,” Ike said with a grin. “I never knew before why you were friends with the Creek, but I’ve quite enjoyed learning from them. May I continue?”

            “I certainly don’t see why not,” Kyle said. “So long as they agree.”

            Feldspar shrugged. “He’s a good trap-setter,” he admitted.

            Ike beamed, and looked ready to thank Kyle again when his eyes lit upon Stan. “Sir Stanley!” Ike said excitedly. “Welcome home. I had heard you were on a quest. Did you succeed?”

            “I certainly did,” Stan said with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re well, young lord.”

            Ike smiled back, then looked from Stan to Kyle, at the way Kyle rested a hand against Stan’s arm, then looked back at Stan, straightened up his stance to affect a bit more nobility, and declared, “You are permitted to call me Ike.”

            Stan blinked in surprise, and glanced at Kyle, who beamed and stroked his hand down Stan’s arm. Stan showed another smile, this one brighter than before, then nodded down to Ike and said, “Thank you. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

            Kyle gave Stan a proud, winsome look, then glanced down again at his ward and drew a deep breath. Kyle felt a pressure on his heart, and realized that, given all that would be discussed once they returned to the palace, it was every bit Ike’s right to know everything. There had been so much hidden from Kyle throughout his childhood, and it was his every intent now to ensure that Ike would never be so in the dark on such important matters.

            “Ike,” Kyle said gently, “before we return home, there are a few things I must discuss with you.” To Stan and Feldspar, he added, “I hope that you don’t mind, but these are matters I would like to reveal to my ward in private. It is nothing that you do not know already; these are things I so wished my parents could have told me when I was younger. I remember my mother saying, ‘everything in time,’ but these are things I do not think should remain unspoken any longer. So much of my own training and understanding would have been different with less hesitation and alleged protection from the truth.”

            Stan nodded his understanding, his mind turning to the parchments that Kyle had written before they had set out for the west. “Take all the time you need,” he encouraged Kyle. “I’ll be right here.”

            Feldspar stepped to the side to offer up the full interior of the cottage, and Kyle thanked both Stan and Feldspar before setting a hand on Ike’s shoulder and leading him back to the small middle room, where they had spoken before.

            As Kyle once again sat alone with his ward, this time to reveal the rest of his truth, and the much more weighted reality of Ike’s place in the kingdom, Feldspar ticked his head to the door and Stan followed him outside. Feldspar picked up a little piece of meat from the cutting board as they exited, and tossed it to the dog in the garden, who chased after it and sat contentedly eating it while Stan and Feldspar spoke.

            “This is quite a home,” Stan complimented his friend.

            “We’re rather fond of it,” Feldspar said with a slight grin.

            Stan smiled, then, after a pause, said, “I haven’t gotten the chance to properly thank you again for your assistance.”

            “On your quest?”

            “My quest, yes,” Stan repeated with fondness for the term. A thought came to him, and he said, “I’ll return that sum of gold to you soon.”

            Feldspar shrugged. “Honestly, Sir, you’ve drawn Clyde out from the shadows, which is more than enough for me,” he said. “I’ve known the man for a long time, and I never expected him to ride west with us.”

            “He says he owes the King and myself a life debt,” Stan mentioned. “Thank you for recommending his service. He’s odd, to be sure, but reliable.”

            “That he is,” Feldspar said. After a moment, he asked, “You met your sister, then?”

            “I did indeed,” Stan said. “And if you don’t mind my asking after her servant…”

            Feldspar rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he confirmed, “Tricia is my younger sister. I didn’t think we looked all that much alike.”

            “Just enough,” Stan said with a grin.

            Feldspar laughed a bit and shrugged. “She used to take odd jobs as I did,” he said. “Even tossed about the idea of running off to train with the Valkyrie until she found a calling in service. She says it’s quite helpful a position,” Feldspar went on, “being privy to certain knowledge the southern court only passes to nobles, and whatnot.”

            “She was very welcoming, if a little excitable,” Stan offered.

            “That’s her,” Feldspar said. “She didn’t tell you my name, did she?”

            “She did not.”

            “Very good.” After a pause, Feldspar asked, “But your sister, Stan? Was it worth the visit? I can see that you didn’t exactly leap at the chance to rise to her station.”

            “That I didn’t,” Stan said, “though in desperation it was more than a little tempting. She was kind, Feldspar. I’m glad to have met her.” He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “Thank you for giving me something I never really knew I needed or wanted, regarding my family.”

            “What’s that?”

            Stan took a long breath and let it out, then said, gladly, “Closure. I know who they were, I know where I came from. I know that my mother and sister are well, and I’m glad for them. And I know that I wouldn’t trade my life for the world.”

            Feldspar grinned. “Thought not,” he said. “Glad to be of some assistance, Sir.”

            “Did you know that Shelley had the court documents?” Stan asked. “The originals? And how did you know she was my sister? How long have you known?”

            “Not long. Tricia was with her when she borrowed the book,” Feldspar said. “She and Token have made previous connections regarding messages from the Creek. I exchanged some words with him recently myself, by way of, well…” He conjured a quick shadow form beside them and then dismissed it. “He may not have known your connection to Lady Shelley precisely at first, but between Tricia and myself, he knew he could entrust your sister with that ledger. The timing was much to your advantage.”

            “Well, you have my thanks,” Stan said. “All of you.”

            “Our pleasure, Stan,” Feldspar said. “You’re a friend. Truthfully,” he added, “I’m glad to see you didn’t choose to take on the title of baron. I honestly can’t say that it fits you.”

            “I feel much the same,” Stan admitted.

            Feldspar glanced off into the distance, then looked back up at Stan smugly and added, “That’s not to say you wouldn’t make an excellent king, however.”

            Stan flushed, but the conversation ended there. A rustling came from the forest, and Stan glanced over to see Thresher emerging from the brush, quiver and bows slung over one shoulder and a sack of pheasants, legs tied together at the opening, slung over the other.

            “Well!” Thresher said. “Company?”

            “Yes,” Feldspar answered. “The King returned for his ward, and we’ve given them a moment.”

            “I see.” Thresher shrugged off the sack full of birds, and asked, “Is this a bad time?”

            “No, no, go inside,” Feldspar said. He walked forward and held out a hand. “I can take care of that for you, my dear.”

            Thresher smiled, and Stan could not help but watch as the two kissed. What struck him, really, was the fact that it was not only an exchange of love and greeting, but there was a familiarity to it; a routine. It made Stan wonder if he and Kyle might someday share the same sort of thing. A sort of love that could be familiar, and un-hidden; something that could be joyous with every greeting, that could be affirmed with such fondness every day.

            Thresher stepped back and handed the spoils of his hunt off to Feldspar, then said a kind hello to Stan before walking into the cottage.

            “You’re welcome to go in yourself, Sir,” Feldspar offered Stan. “I’ll just be taking these round the back before I return as well.”

            “It’s all right,” Stan said. “I wouldn’t want to deny Kyle the time he needs to speak with his ward.”

            Feldspar laughed a bit.

            “What?” Stan wondered.

            “Referring to the King by name again, I see,” said Feldspar. “You’ve told him, haven’t you? At very least?”

            “Yes,” Stan confirmed, flushed somewhat.

            Feldspar smiled, then began walking around the side of the building with the captured game from Thresher’s hunt. “Love does find its way, Sir,” he said as he left. “I’ve seen it for myself.”

            Stan’s heart pounded in his chest, and he walked in the opposite direction from his friend. After a few paces, he stopped and turned to admire the Creek’s stone cottage; the craftsmanship of the building, the care put into the grass and garden surrounding it, the smoke from the hearth fire rising up from the chimney. He turned again to look after where the dog had gone, still happily eating its choice of meat, picking its head up here and there, on guard for its masters. Stan smiled; it was a lovely life the rogues had created for themselves, and he was glad for them.

            But Stan lost himself in thought again. Negotiations with the council would be happening, and all so soon. Though things were bound to be better this time, the future was still so vague. Kyle’s birthday was drawing nearer, and the kingdom was no longer in wartime; his council had made it clear that he was to marry before he was twenty, and the woman who had proposed was indeed here in the kingdom.

            Before Stan’s mind could wander too far, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and knew that it was Kyle even before he turned to look. They smiled for one another, and Kyle linked both of his arms around Stan’s right, standing close beside him. “Don’t tell me you were out here standing guard,” Kyle teased.

            “Oh, no,” Stan assured him. “Simply getting some air.”

            “Mm?”

            “Yes.” Stan drew a deep breath, and in doing so felt, despite his nerves, content. For the battle was over, his quest was done, and he was there in the kingdom that had always been his one true place of belonging. “It’s so good to be home,” he professed.

            Kyle’s hold tightened a little, and he rested his head on Stan’s. “Yes,” Kyle agreed. “And here we are, together.”

            “Here we are,” Stan echoed fondly. After a pause, he asked, “How is the young lord? Ike?” he corrected, after remembering Ike’s own allowance for Stan’s use of his name.

            Kyle smiled at that, and answered, “He is well. I’m so glad that he remained out of harm’s way, all this time. I’ve told him of my mother’s line, and of the gravity of expectations that will soon be placed upon him. He was a little sad, of course, but understanding. He truly is a very wise child, and I will see to it myself that he grows to be a wise King someday as well.” Before Stan could remark, Kyle added, “I’ve told him that I love you.”

            “Have you?” Stan asked.

            “Yes, though he says I’m not exactly hiding it very well.”

            “Wise _and_ perceptive, then,” Stan offered, with a slight grin.

            “Yes, indeed.” Kyle paused another moment, then began, “Stan?”

            “Hmm?

            Slowly, Kyle turned so that the two faced one another; Stan wrapped his arms around Kyle’s waist, and Kyle lightly set his hands on Stan’s chest, and watched the sunlight glint off of his mother’s ring. He smiled, and laughed a little, and admitted, “You know, Stan, part of me wants to do nothing more than to build a little cottage like this for us, where we could run away from whatever nonsense it is my council is sure to attempt in the coming days.”

            “Is that so?” Stan asked, teasingly nudging Kyle’s nose with his.

            Kyle laughed again, and curled his fingers in, and kissed Stan sweetly, wishing for the moment to last a lifetime. When he drew back, Kyle looked with years of longing into Stan’s eyes, and felt the weight of the world around him; he touched a hand to Stan’s cheek, and kissed him again, almost desperately this time.

            Stan kissed Kyle once more, then asked, softly, “Are you all right?”

            Though a bit tearful, Kyle nodded. He swept his hand back through Stan’s hair, and managed a smile as he said, “So many times, for so many years, you truly have run away with me, whenever I’ve asked it. But I know that I cannot run from the council, nor from my station, any longer. I will be King until my time is done, and I shall rule gladly and with honor, but I cannot fathom ruling without you by my side. I know my truth now, and I feel stronger in voice when it comes to matters of the council. Even so, I admit that I am afraid of what yet may come, when next we meet in the council chambers. I know what I wish to say, and I only hope I have the strength to say it.”

            “I’m sure you do,” Stan told him. “You are capable of such great things, Kyle. I have seen it, and I am so… so very proud of you for it,” he finally confessed, which made Kyle show a smile again. “You are a strong and caring leader, Kyle, and your council would be utter fools not to see that, especially now. You will find the words that you need. I know it.”

            “I love you, Stan,” said Kyle, softly.

            “And I love you, Kyle,” Stan returned. “I shall love you until the sun sets on my life, and I shall love you regardless of what may come of your betrothal to the Princess.”

            “I would so rather marry you, my darling,” Kyle confessed.

            “And I you, my love,” Stan said, trying not to feel too remorseful with the knowledge that such a thing had never come to pass between royalty and a knight in any of the kingdoms of Zaron before. “No matter the future, yours or mine, know that my heart will always be yours to hold.”

            In the quiet of the forest, there together in a small moment before the discussions that would determine the future of their mutually beloved kingdom could begin, Stan and Kyle shared another tender kiss, lending their strength to one another as they had done so many times before, reinforced with the love they had found together.

            Long after they had returned to the palace, and Ike had been joyfully welcomed home to the court by his attendants, Kyle lay awake for quite some time, holding his mother’s ring close to his heart, rehearsing all the things he might say to his council when the time came. He would be diplomatic, he decided, but straightforward in his true desires and intentions. And he hoped that all, somehow, could be well.

– – –

            The following day, when the sun was at its peak in the sky, with the Princesses both back in good health, a banquet was laid out in the dining hall to celebrate the Princesses’ return, and Larnion’s victory in the battle with the west. Princess Kenny was seated on Kyle’s left, but Stan was seated to his right. Stan had tried to offer to stand and eat at another time, which Kyle had immediately protested. “Nonsense,” Kyle had said. “You are a hero, deserving of all the praise in the kingdom.”

            Following the banquet, Kyle, Stan, and Princess Kenny led a small party of soldiers to the prison. Princess Karen came along, once again at her sister’s side. Kyle and Stan had offered her some of the palace’s finest guards to keep watch over her should she not want to take part in the day’s slow releasing of the held prisoners, but Karen had kindly refused, as had Kenny, as the sisters did not want to be another minute apart after the many tumultuous months that had kept them from one another. It was a perfectly understandable request, and one that the King and his knight gladly honored.

            Before they could release or even continue to speak to members of either council, Princess Kenny asked, quite strongly, to be taken first to her paladin. Feldspar had locked Leopold in a private cell on the second level of the prison, where he still remained. The prison guard fitted a torch to the wall and opened the door to the cell, revealing the paladin at his lowest.

            Leopold’s hands were shackled in front of him, and chains ran from the shackles to the cell walls. He sat on his knees, framed in a pool of light from the small window in the wall behind him, with his head bowed, his hair falling in a curtain over his face, casting it in shadow.

            Princess Kenny stepped forward, her slippered feet hardly making a sound. When she had stopped directly in the doorway, all she asked was, “What have you done?”

            Leopold gasped and raised his head, revealing that a simple black patch now covered his missing left eye, though some scarring could be seen on the skin around it. “Princess?” he asked. The Princess cried out and fell to her knees in front of him, reaching out to take his face in her hands as she examined the damage.

            “Leopold, who did this?” the Princess demanded. “What happened to you?”

            Leopold bowed his head. “It’s no less than I deserve,” he said. “I’m sorry, Princess. I failed you. I can no longer call myself a paladin.”

            “No, no, no,” Princess Kenny said soothingly. “Tell me what happened. Tell me what brought you to this.”

            Leopold’s breath shook before he answered. “I failed you when I rode west for negotiations, Princess,” he said. “The warlocks of course did not accept your terms for returning your sister. The Wizard enchanted my hammer, and, by extension, me. I could not see things for what they were when I returned. I could not see or feel the curse that they had sent back with me to replace you. Only when my hammer was brought down in battle did the glamour lift, Princess. I am sorry, and I am ashamed.”

            “Oh, Leopold,” said the Princess, shifting to wrap her arms around him. “My stupid paladin. Must I keep an eye on everything you do?”

            “It would seem so, Princess.”

            Princess Kenny sat back, brushed her hands through her paladin’s hair, and kissed his forehead. “Prove yourself merciful again, my darling fool,” she said to him, “and I shall forgive you.”

            “I hardly deserve that, my lady,” Leopold said.

            “Nonsense,” said the Princess. “Perhaps you committed treason, but you did so under the effects of a glamour brought upon you by a wicked man who is no longer of this world.”

            Leopold drew a slight gasp. “Is he gone?” he asked.

            “I saw to his end myself.”

            Faintly, Leopold smiled. “I would expect no less from you, my lady,” he said fondly. “But I am afraid that I still carried that curse home to you, and threatened our allied kingdom with my own tongue. I cannot undo my errors.”

            “No, no,” said the Princess. “Vessels may act and vessels may speak, but the actions and words were not yours, sweet Leopold. I’ll say it again: you will be forgiven, and you will be a paladin once more.”

            Tears fell from Leopold’s right eye, and he said a quiet, “Thank you, Princess.”

            Princess Kenny patted his cheek, then gathered her skirts and stood. “Please release him,” she said to the guards.

            “Is that wise, Princess?” Kyle asked.

            “I shall keep him under close watch,” Kenny said. “He may once have been under effects of the glamour, but he may yet prove useful for setting things right. Either way, I will be bringing him home with me.”

            Kyle regarded the Princess for a moment, but seeing her full expression assuaged his nerves. He nodded to the guards, who removed Leopold’s chains and hoisted him up to standing. Both guards kept a firm hold of the paladin’s arms, and Leopold kept his head bowed and did not resist restraint.

            Princess Kenny looked to the King and his knight. “Do you wish,” she asked Kyle, “to put my paladin to trial?”

            Kyle considered the idea, but enough had been said, both that day and the morning after the dragon’s defeat. “No,” he declared. “I’ve heard enough from him. But he will be questioned with each return trip to my kingdom until his honor is reclaimed.”

            “I understand,” said Princess Kenny, with a nod.

            “I have one question,” Stan said, “if I may ask it.”

            “Yes?” said the Princess.

            Stan drew a deep breath. “Leopold,” he said. And here, the paladin did lift his head, stiffly and only slightly, just enough to look upon Stan with his one good eye. “Leopold, what would you call me?” Stan asked.

            Leopold’s shoulders slouched, but he managed to keep his head up as he answered with honesty, “You are Larnion’s champion, Sir, and every bit my superior officer. Most certainly not nothing. Far from it, in fact.”

            Stan breathed a sigh of relief, and said nothing more to the paladin. He signaled to his guards, and led the others back to the first level of the stronghold, where Kyle began to confront each individual member of his council with a list of prepared questions to test their loyalty.

            One by one, council members were released, each of them under varying levels of trust and understanding on Kyle’s part. Kyle paid mind, too, to anyone who spoke ill of Stan’s presence, or made too much of Princess Kenny’s. “We are not here to discuss stations,” Kyle said to the few who still seemed to quote archaic laws in their defense. “We are all here as allies, first and foremost. I am of the mind that a kingdom is safest in the hands of those who care without the prompting of a line in a ledger book that tells them to do so. What I wish to know from you today is not what your feelings are about my friendships or anyone who may be my future companion, but how and if you will serve this kingdom in the name of what is right for all who reside in it. I need to know that we can have _dialogue_ when I rise to full power, that you will not scoff at a suggestion that perhaps a law that is not working should be changed. And if you need to be reminded of what it means to serve with honor, well, then, I suggest you look no further for guidance than to Larnion’s own knights, whose vigilance under their Captain’s capable tutelage has helped keep our kingdom safe for so many years from those who would do us harm.”

            Kyle sent his councilors back to the palace to meet with and hear from those that had been released after the battle with the frost dragon, in hopes that hearing from the quieter voices would help the majority come to terms with their mishandlings of certain subjects in both the distant and recent past. When all was done, Princess Kenny conducted her own round of interrogations with the members of her council, keeping Leopold and her sister close as she asked after each member’s loyalties when it came to the dragon imposter. There were some that the Princess sent back to her kingdom straight away in a prison cart, who still swore by their actions under the glamour, but most had come around and expressed their profoundest regrets for slipping under dark magic control, and their gratitude that both Princesses were safe from the warlocks’ tyranny.

            At last, the interviews and interrogations were finished, and Stan took up the lead as the small party exited the prison. As they stepped out and back onto the path to the palace, Kyle caught up to Princess Kenny and said, “I’m terribly sorry about the damage done to your paladin’s eye, Princess. My medics have seen to the injury, but if you’d like for one to craft him a false eye, I’m sure something can be arranged. Our magic cannot erase wounds or restore sight, only ease pain that has been caused, but if you both wish for a convincing replacement, please say the word. I do hope that he heals well.”

            “Oh!” Kenny said. “I’m grateful for the offer, my lord. Let me speak to him about it. That’s very generous of you.”

            “We’ve seen today, and throughout the course of this battle, that so many are deserving of a second chance,” Kyle said. “I do believe that your paladin intended no personal harm. It is the least that I can do to offer him what I can as recompense for damages done while he was under effects of the glamour.”

            Princess Kenny smiled. “This is what I admire about you, sire,” she said. “You are so caring when it comes to seeing the good in the world.”

            “I value friendship and goodwill, Princess,” Kyle said, “that’s all. Trust is the primary bond that we elves have with the spirits of Larnion, and it is my hope as King to keep that extended among my citizens and allies. I could never be one to sever a friendship with someone whose true thoughts and actions come from the right place.”

            “Why, you sound nearly like a knight or a paladin, my lord,” Princess Kenny remarked, causing Kyle to flush.

            “Or a Valkyrie, even,” Princess Karen added.

            “How so?” Kyle wondered.

            “Knights in your kingdom, and elite warriors in mine and in the Midlands,” said Princess Kenny, “operate on a code, above all else. There was something that you said to your councilors in there,” she continued, “that has made me think on the delineation between knights and paladins in my own kingdom.”

            “Oh?” Kyle asked. He saw Stan tense somewhat, and he could not blame him; the false Princess and Leopold both had made reference to the way that knights in the south were of a vastly different class than knights of Larnion, only speaking when spoken to.

            “Yes,” said Princess Kenny. “Your knights truly are of much more noble standing, and your kingdom is all the stronger for it. I believe that, in ours, it may be time for change.”

            “As do I,” her sister agreed. “Our parents may be away, but I believe this is one institutional change that can be made for the better of our kingdom, which they won’t retract upon their return.”

            “I’m glad to hear it,” Kyle said with relief. “Now,” he added, “tell me, Princess Karen, do you still intend to continue your training with the Valkyrie, on the subject of warriors?”

            “Oh… not just yet, sire,” Princess Karen answered, taking hold of her sister’s hand. “I think that I should like to take what I have learned from them and put it to use in matters of the court. My sister and I work best as a team. Until our parents return home, I believe it is best for us to stay together.”

            “I’ve spoken with my court cleric,” Princess Kenny added. “He’s told me of the many unsatisfactory stipulations the dragon put to order under my name. There will be much for us to clear up and atone for in the coming months, to undo that damage, and I will be glad to have my sister’s support in such matters.”

            “Both of our lands are in need of healing, and the dissemination of the truth of the matters of the past weeks and months,” Kyle said. “You have our aid, should you require it.”

            “Thank you, sire,” said Princess Kenny. “And you have ours, at a moment’s request.”

            “I’m glad to hear it,” Kyle said. “Let’s both be sure to make our intentions heard at tomorrow’s gathering of the councils.”

            “Of course,” Princess Kenny agreed. “Sir Stanley,” she continued.

            “Yes, Princess?” Stan asked, slowing his pace to walk on her opposite side.

            “My offer goes for you, as well,” said the Princess. “I believe border defenses should be of highest priority for both of our kingdoms, at least until we know that the western surrender will continue to hold for some time. Should you require the assistance of my knights or paladins, simply send word.”

            Stan smiled, glad to be speaking to the true Princess as something of a friend, rather than with apprehension as he had her double. “Much obliged, Princess,” he said. “I’m glad that our courts’ alliances have strengthened, despite all that has happened.”

            “Yes, indeed.”

            Princess Kenny looked to her sister, and then to Kyle, then asked, “If you would excuse us for a moment.” She then took hold of Stan’s right arm, and walked him quickly forward several paces, to speak to him quietly. Stan’s heart skipped, and his mind spun as he wondered just what the Princess meant by the sudden action, but the worried look on her face that he then noticed spoke volumes.

            “Sir Stanley,” the Princess said somberly.

            “Yes, my lady?” Stan asked.

            “Your question to my paladin,” said the Princess, looking straight ahead. “What did you mean by that? What, precisely, did he do to you? And was it you who damaged his eye? I’ll not be angry. I simply want to know.”

            “Oh,” Stan said, making himself relax somewhat, and shift so that he was escorting the Princess more properly with a more formal angling of his arm. “He spoke threats, both to me directly, and about my King indirectly. He attacked us when the dragon revealed herself, and it was Feldspar of the Creek who dealt that damage to his eye, in the heat of battle.”

            “I see,” said the Princess. “And what of his hammer?”

            “Rendered powerless by the ranger, Clyde,” Stan answered. “It is being held safe. I… I’m sure its power will return once it is back in Leopold’s hands.”

            “Yes, I’m sure that will remain to be seen,” said the Princess. After a few quiet steps, she asked, “The dragon… did she harm you, or your King? Again, speak freely. I will not be angry.”

            “Most of the damage done by the dragon and your glamoured paladin were in words, my lady,” Stan answered, choosing not to tell her the exact words the dragon had spoken to him on the night she had banished him from Larnion. “She put on a convincing act, I’m sorry to say, but neither my King nor I believed that she could possibly have been you. Only those so willingly supportive of…” He trailed off, realizing that he may have gone too far.

            “Yes?” Princess Kenny asked. “I’ll not be angry,” she repeated.

            Stan took a deep breath, then continued, “Only those so willingly supportive of your betrothal to my King were susceptible to the affects of the glamour. The ones who had extended the invitation to who they thought was you, thus inviting dark magic across our border, seemed unable to distinguish any difference between you and your double, Princess.”

            “Hmm,” said Princess Kenny. “That clarifies much for me, thank you.” After another moment, she asked, “I take it the King himself was dissatisfied with the proposal?”

            “I’m… not sure if that is my answer to give, Princess,” said Stan.

            Princess Kenny smiled. No matter how else he felt about the situation, Stan realized, it was good to _see_ the Princess smiling. She no longer wore her scarf. The less attention she drew to it, the less the burn scar on her jaw seemed noticeable at all. Just as she had proclaimed at the end of the battle, she wore it now with pride. And she was all the more beautiful for it.

            “You truly do have such faith in each other,” Princess Kenny complimented Stan. “All right. I shall honor that. I suppose I’m even a little jealous of that. Your King does speak so highly of bonds woven through trust. I myself have been both too trustworthy and too naïve in the past, but now that I have seen your kingdom’s strength in action, I should like to carry that forward into my own manner of ruling.” She paused, then added, “Speaking of trust, Sir Stanley, might I confide a secret in you?”

            “Of course, Princess,” Stan said.

            Princess Kenny smiled up at him, then cupped a hand to one side of her mouth, walked on her toes, and whispered into his ear, “There is a man that I love, and he is not one who lives in your kingdom.”

            Stan’s eyes widened, and he looked to the Princess, but she did not elaborate. Glad to have a bit of peace of mind, however, Stan escorted her for the rest of the walk back to the palace. It now seemed much more likely than not that both sides would mutually break off the engagement, regardless of any merit the written proposal would be deemed by the councils to have had at all.

            Still, however, Stan tried not to be too hopeful. He went about his tasks as normal for the rest of the day, making his rounds and checking in with the members of his guard, speaking with the soldiers who had incurred injuries during the battle to see how they were faring, all while keeping his head up and trying, so hard, not to envision any sort of future beyond that evening. Yes, Stan could wonder and dream about just how any sort of arrangement might be made that would allow for some sort of romantic relationship to continue between himself and Kyle, but the worst thing of all, he realized, would be to hope too high and end up heartbroken.

– – –

            The dinner that evening was far less formal than the celebratory banquet, but Kyle had planned it strategically to allow for all members of the council to be seated among guests, including the Valkyrie, the Princess’s cleric, and even Clyde. It was also Kyle’s intention to make absolutely certain the council was aware of Ike’s return, and the reasons why Kyle had hidden Ike from the events in the palace in the first place. In the midst of all that they had dismissed, Kyle’s councilors did indeed appear more humbled, and Ike was given a very fond welcome home… as well as a few apologies from some of the councilors who felt simply awful that they had not accounted for his absence whatsoever.

            Clyde had taken far longer than Stan to recover from the injuries he had sustained in the battle, and he had for the most part been uncharacteristically quiet since the party’s return to Larnion. He appeared quiet at the dinner, as well, though he told Kyle more than once that he was honored to have been given an invitation; most of his apprehension seemed to come out in careful glances toward those present from the southern kingdom.

            Kyle circled the tables that evening, despite the protests of a few of his councilors, in order to speak to everyone individually. Most conversations were kept small, to ensure that the food was satisfactory and that all were well, but when he reached Clyde, who had opted to sit at the far end of one of the tables, away from too much discussion, Kyle asked, “How are you faring in your recovery from the battle?”

            “Oh… well, your highness,” Clyde said, albeit nervously. “It was the most I’ve undertaken in a long time, but I’m glad I… I’m glad that I could be there. I thought for so long that I’d never want to return to the west, but in the end…”

            “You have my sincerest thanks,” Kyle said, “and that of all of Larnion, for your service. You were instrumental in destroying the greatest threat to our kingdom, Clyde. Thank you.”

            Clyde shook his head. “No need to thank me, your highness,” he said. “It was the least I could do, to repay you for sparing my life all those years ago.”

            “Then it seems,” Kyle said, “we have reached a place of mutual gratitude, which truly makes us allies.”

            Clyde thought on this, and nodded, but said nothing.

            “Do you wish to leave?” Kyle asked.

            “Oh, not… not necessarily, I hope I’m not being rude,” Clyde said. “I have no idea how any of this is supposed to work, dining with royalty or any of that. I’m a Midlander, but most of the work I take on is in service to those in the south, which I suppose makes Princess Kenny and her parents the closest things to sovereigns that I have. I owe her court practically my weight in gold, which… which I am paying back to the cleric, sire, don’t get me wrong, every bit… and now I’ve gone and nullified her paladin’s hammer. I don’t know how to approach either of them about that. I’m terrible at talking to nobles.”

            “You’re talking to me,” Kyle pointed out.

            Clyde paled. “Yes, but… well, talking to you, sire, is practically like talking to your knight,” he said, “and I feel I’ve known him long enough to count him as a friend, so… oh, well, damn it all, I’m sure I’ve said something wrong in all that, after all.”

            Kyle laughed a little, and said, “You haven’t. I understand how overwhelming palace affairs can be. And to be compared in any way to my Stan is a compliment indeed.”

            Clyde managed to smile somewhat, and looked to be on the verge of making another similar comment, but refrained, his nerves regarding nobles seeming to win out. Kyle offered, to clear the air, “If it should help, why don’t you join us in the council chamber tomorrow?”

            “Sire?” Clyde asked.

            “I’m afraid it will be terribly dull conversation, for the most part,” Kyle admitted, “but the Princesses, the paladin, and the cleric will all be present. It would be a good opportunity to return Leopold’s hammer, given the many witnesses there will be in the room, and I wish to conduct the meeting with an air of equal standing for anyone who has something to say. You will have my support, and my knight’s, should there be any matters you wish to make clear to either court.”

            Clyde thought on the offer for a moment, looked down at his newly bandaged hands, then glanced up at Kyle again and said, “I admit I don’t think anything in the world will ever fully convince me that I enjoy all this talk of courts and royals, if I’m being honest, but I appreciate the offer, your highness, and I’ll attend. Thank you. And sire?” he added, before Kyle could turn to go.

            “Yes?” Kyle asked.

            “I’m glad that there’s no ill will between us,” Clyde said. “For what happened to you during the battle for the Stick of Truth, your highness, I am still so terribly sorry.”

            Kyle felt his heart skip, but he kept his head up and smiled, and said his own quiet, “Thank you,” before returning to the table at the head of the hall.

            Stan, it seemed, had also risen to make rounds in order to speak with the Valkyrie and his own soldiers, and to personally thank the southern forces for their assistance, and he and Kyle ended up approaching their designated chairs at the same time. When Stan smiled, Kyle felt his heart begin to pound, and he found himself hoping, so greatly, that his council had taken full notice of the care and vigilance with which Stan underwent his duties as Captain of the Guard. It was a more than noble position, Kyle thought, and even then, Stan went above and beyond. Nearly behaving like a king himself.

            Kyle flushed at the thought, but was calmed back to the moment when Stan remarked, “It’s a lovely dinner, my lord. There’s still a course left; are you leaving?”

            “Oh!” Kyle said. “No, no. I simply can’t just _sit_ in a crowded room when I could very well go about talking with those attending. Besides, everyone in this room deserves to regain a sense of normalcy after all that’s happened. I only wanted to ensure that… that they’re all happy.”

            Stan laughed a bit, and said, “I feel much the same.”

            Kyle beamed, and looked out over the dining hall. He then looked back at Stan, catching his eyes as he asked, “And you? Are you happy?”

            “I’m here,” Stan said fondly, offering Kyle his left hand. “Of course I am.”

            Kyle smiled in return, and took Stan’s hand gently in his right, allowing Stan to guide him back to his seat. When both were seated again, Stan at Kyle’s side, Kyle caught the attention of an attendant to request fresh goblets of mead for himself and his knight.

            “You know,” Stan commented, taking another glance around the hall himself, “to your point regarding a sense of normalcy… I do agree. It’s incredible, all that’s happened these past weeks. I’ll admit I’d still like to wait a couple of weeks yet before fully declaring peace and easing our presence at the border, but I’m certain all will be well.” He was contemplative for a moment, and Kyle watched as Stan’s expression softened, as his dusk blue eyes took in all that he cared about, and Kyle hoped that Stan could see, truly, just how instrumental he was to the court, how much of the battle’s victory was his… how lucky the kingdom was that, no matter how he had arrived when he was a child, Stan had found his place, there at the very heart of Larnion. It seemed that Stan was thinking on this himself, somewhat, and all of it came down to one simple thing for him; he turned once again to look at Kyle, and proclaimed as he had that morning, “I truly am so glad to be home.”

            Not caring what anyone present in the hall might think on the matter, Kyle set his right hand over Stan’s left atop the table, and squeezed it tightly.

            The attendant returned with the mead after that moment, and the dinner commenced as a fine gathering indeed. At the end of the meal, Kyle was sure to keep Stan close at his side as he spoke with each and every member of the council as they exited to the rest of the palace, confirming the hour at which the meetings would begin in the morning, and stressing that it was of utmost importance that the declaration he had begun to draft be finalized with Princess Kenny’s approval. That no one in Larnion would be kept in the dark regarding the truth of the dragon’s deceit. And that, with Kyle’s twentieth birthday approaching and his full reign soon to be celebrated, his kingdom should be informed that his rule would last only within the confines of a human lifetime.

            He insisted to each councilor, as well, that Ike be present at the meetings in order for his own diplomatic training to begin, and that Stan would be given a proper seat at the table. After all, Kyle said, there was no one better to speak on the nature of the battle and the precision in affairs that should come after than the Captain of the Guard. The council, by majority, truly did seem to agree with each sentiment, and Kyle felt stronger, and more capable, with each conversation.

            It was the first time that he truly started to think on the fact that, yes, he would be twenty soon. He had been King for ten years, and yet his reign had been primarily symbolic until now. For ten years, Kyle had felt a vast mix of emotions with regard to being King, and had indeed often tried to run from difficult or dull conversations, but more and more, he was coming to terms with and embracing it all. He was ready, he realized.

            To lead the next day’s meetings with a peaceful air but with enough scrutiny not to allow the council to fall back into their old ways; to not be dismissed, but to be diplomatic and forthright; to give both Princesses of his allied kingdom a platform to speak, as well as any other who had something to report that would assist in the dissemination of proper knowledge to Larnion’s citizens regarding all that had transpired; to say his own peace, to voice what was important not just to his court and his kingdom but to himself, Kyle was ready.

            He was ready.

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a day later than originally anticipated. I made an eleventh-hour call to split up the chapter (as I did with Chapter XIV, and as I kind of thought I might with this one) when it started encroaching upon 40 pages in length. I've upped the chapter count to 19, but sort of want to try to make it an even 20... we'll see! Everything is planned out and mostly written, so once I get to a page count for the final chapters, I'll make the call.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for your support of this story! And many thanks again to my beta reader for her helpful editing. The next chapter should be up within the next couple of weeks. ^^


	17. XVII. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, at a gathering of the councils and allies, decrees are made, honors are given, and a final decision is reached regarding Kyle's betrothal.

 

            Stan underwent an abbreviated watch in the morning, checking in on the palace and grounds, allowing himself to enjoy a short return to his routine. All signs of the fight against the frost dragon had been erased during the war party’s quest to save the Princesses, and there was an air of relief woven throughout the palace that Stan became easily attuned to. All in the court seemed to have recognized the fact that Kyle was more at ease now than he had been for several weeks, and to have secured a victory against their greatest foe to the west seemed to lift everyone’s spirits a great deal.

            Stan delegated tasks among his knights to continue rounds and keep scouts at the western border, and welcomed Larnion’s visiting allies back to the palace and into the council chambers. Once nearly all had gathered, he stood as he had so many times before at the foot of the stairs to greet his King.

            He drew a deep breath, and looked up when Kyle appeared at the top of the stairs, where the light from the eastern windows shone off of the polished wood and copper of the palace interior. Stan tried, so desperately, in that moment not to think on all that could very well shift that day with an agreement between the two gathered councils. Stan thought only, instead, of the person he loved, of how beautiful Kyle looked in the sunlight, of how lucky Stan was to have returned home to Larnion, to be in whatever way he could at Kyle’s side, throughout all that would come next.

            The other knights spoke their _good mornings,_ but when Kyle approached Stan, he simply smiled, and held out his left hand, palm up. Stan smiled in return, and offered Kyle his right arm. Kyle took it fondly, and Stan felt him take a deep breath of his own as the two moved only a few paces across the hall, to await Princess Kenny’s arrival.

            When Princess Kenny appeared at the top of the stairs on the other side of the grand hall, her sister close beside her, Stan felt Kyle tense. Reassuringly, he whispered, “I’m here,” and glanced at Kyle.

            Kyle managed to relax somewhat, and said, softly, quietly, just the word, “Yes.” He placed his free right hand on Stan’s lower arm, and curled his fingers in where they touched the leather gauntlet Stan wore. Kyle stroked his thumb against the protective material, and in the motion, the emerald in the ring he wore on that hand shone against the light. Kyle looked ready to cry for a moment, but then held his head upright as Kenny approached.

            “Good morning, my lord,” the Princess said cordially.

            “The same to you, Princess,” Kyle returned. “Are you ready to begin today’s negotiations?”

            “I am,” said Princess Kenny. Turning to Stan, she added, “And good morning to you, Sir Stanley. I truly must thank you for your hospitality; your knights are incredibly well-trained and courteous. You should be proud.”

            Stan’s heart skipped. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “It is an honor to be tasked with their training. I’m glad to hear you approve.”

            Princess Kenny smiled, then looked back to Kyle. “Sire,” she said, “I know the answer may not come easily, but may I request my paladin’s presence at the meetings? He’ll not be involved. I simply wish to keep him nearby.”

            Stan and Kyle both saw, then, Leopold approaching from where he had been stationed at the foot of the stairs leading to the Princesses’ guest chambers. Leopold seemed to be faring better that day. His paladin’s uniform had been graciously mended by Kyle’s palace weavers so that he could be clad in his kingdom’s attire once again, he’d been given the opportunity to properly wash the memory of battle from his skin, and his hair was neatly tied back at the base of his head. Still, however, he wore a black patch over his left eye, and did not quite carry himself with the same air he had in years past.

            Kyle gave the paladin a cautious look over, and Stan followed suit. After a moment, Kyle decided, “He may join you, Princess. I think it would do the councils good to see for themselves how he has recovered, as well. Leopold?”

            “Yes, sire?” Leopold asked, lifting his head only slightly.

            “Would you be willing to come forward again in this meeting, should you be required, but to remain with my palace guards otherwise?” Kyle asked.

            “I would, your highness,” said Leopold. “I am grateful for the opportunity to remain near to my Princess for the day, and I promise no ill will to you, nor indeed anyone in attendance.”

            “Very good,” Kyle said. “I’ll ask you to lead the way, then. You remember the corridors?”

            “Yes, sire.”

            Kyle gave a nod, and Princess Kenny showed him a grateful look in return before Leopold began to escort her to the council chamber. He walked at a slower pace so as not to anger his wounds, but Princess Kenny adjusted her own steps to match his, and Stan shifted pace so that he and Kyle followed behind, following tradition that the King be the last to enter, in order to declare the meeting in session.

            Princess Kenny offered her hand to her paladin when they had walked a few paces into the council chambers, and he stopped, turned to her, and gently kissed the back of her hand. Princess Kenny smiled, lifted herself onto her toes to kiss his forehead, and walked the rest of the way to the table without an escort, holding her sister’s hand. Leopold dutifully turned back, and stood at attention just at the inside of the door, removing himself well enough from the meeting.

            Stan gave him a brief look, and Leopold glanced down. The paladin had earned the titles both of _Merciful_ and _Chaos_ for his array of deeds in the past, and it appeared now that the former eclipsed the latter; Leopold was caring and dutiful, and his storm magic had been manipulated to a damaging extent, seemingly to himself most of all. And so as he passed, Stan said to Leopold, “I hope that you find your path again.”

            Leopold gasped, and glanced up. Stan smiled slightly, then turned to continue escorting Kyle to the long meeting table.

            Two chairs still were present at the table’s head, where Kyle’s parents once were seated for matters of state. Kyle always sat in what had been his father’s chair, being the one reserved for the sovereign of the current dynastic line, while the one that had been his mother’s had remained empty, in wait of Kyle’s future companion. Princess Kenny was not sitting in it that morning. Instead, she had been seated on the side of the table left of the sovereigns’ chairs, beside her sister and her cleric, and among members of her court. Further down the left side of the table were a few members of Kyle’s council, Commander Wendy, Bebe, and Nichole.

            On the righthand side of the table were seated the rest of Kyle’s council, Ike, and, toward the far end, Clyde, and the Creek. One chair in the middle of the righthand side, between two councilors, was empty. When Stan looked to Kyle to ask who it was intended for, Kyle only smiled and said, “What, did you think you needed to stand at attention throughout today’s meetings?” Quieter, he added, “I would have liked you closer, but I needed to be _some_ what strategic. The council can’t ignore you if you’re seated among them.”

            Stan wanted to laugh, but held it back for decency’s sake in front of the council, then walked to the chair designated for him and stood in front of it. One of Kyle’s councilors, a magical advisor, welcomed the King into the room on behalf of all gathered, and prompted the others in attendance to stand to recognize him.

            “Thank you,” Kyle said. “Please be seated, that we might begin.”

            When all were, Kyle took his own seat, and paused a moment, clutching the arms of the chair. For so long, Kyle truly had considered it to be his father’s, that he was only occupying it until he fully came of age for matters of state, but on that day, he accepted, completely, that it was rightfully his. And so he began, “In three months, I will be twenty, and I will call my council back to this room to meet for the first time under the purview of my full reign. Today marks the end of our brief foray into wartime, and so while I understand that I must appeal to you for the decisions made today, indeed for as many hours as this may take, I ask that you not only hear me out when I speak, but to give equal attention and weight to the words offered by our gathered allies.

            “Matters of the council are not for the council alone,” Kyle continued strongly, making sure to look at each and every councilmember present as he spoke. “Everything discussed in this room must be for the well-being of Larnion, and the people, as individuals and groups, that reside in this kingdom. When I fully rise to my position it will be my foremost duty to see to it that honesty and trust not only are valued by this court but preside over each and every meeting we undertake, whether for battle strategy, or legislation, or anything else. This is the High Elven Court, but this does not mean that we do not honor the human customs of our allies or even our own citizens. As I possess human blood myself, I must set forward right now that I will not favor the voices representative of one part of my bloodline over the other with any personal bias.

            “I ask all of you,” he said, “to take a look around the table. While I understand that routine discussions are matters to be carried out between myself and the council, and whomever my future companion may be, I should like to think that these gatherings of allies can become rather common as well during my reign. I would like to hear frequently from our allies in the Valkyrie and throughout the Midlands, as well as those of the southern court, and our cousins and allies to the north. This will keep us strong, and informed, and peaceful, and will hopefully help us avoid inviting a threat, however unwillingly, past our borders again. We are met to have peaceful negotiations today. We have defeated a common enemy, but we cannot take this to mean we will never face opposition from the west again.

            “What I wish to accomplish today is multifold. Meals will be eaten here in the council chamber, and pauses will be taken as needed, but we will remain in this room as long as we must, and continue tomorrow if need be, in order to be in accord regarding the information that will be spread to the citizens of Larnion and our allied kingdoms. First and foremost in our priorities is the finalization of the document which will be sent out among every town and village to deliver the news of what has transpired these last several weeks. I do wish at some point as well to come to an agreement of proper accolades to be given to those not among our court who have given their service in both the revelation of the Wizard’s frost dragon plot, and the ending of that wicked man’s tyranny for good.”

            “All very good, sire,” said one of his councilors. “However, we must also come to an agreement with the Princess and her council regarding the terms of your engagement.”

            Kyle winced somewhat, but remained upright. “Of course, we will discuss it,” he said, “when the time comes. But first, the dissemination of the truth. Princess Kenny?” Kyle prompted. Though the two had already exchanged words, Kyle was determined to let both councils hear words of diplomacy from himself and from the Princess.

            Kenny lifted her head, then patted her sister’s hand and rose. She looked Kyle in the eyes for only a second before she lowered her gaze and bowed respectfully to him. When again she stood, Kyle nodded his own acknowledgement, and then asked, at volume enough for all present to hear, “How are you faring, Princess?”

            “Much better, my lord,” said Princess Kenny. “Thank you.”

            “And your sister?”

            “In good health, sire, thanks to you and your kingdom.”

            Kyle showed a smile for her and said, “I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded to Princess Karen as well, who shyly smiled back, and then Kyle turned his attention again to Kenny. “Now, Princess,” Kyle said, “there was unfortunately significant damage done by the dragon that took your place.”

            “My deepest apologies, sire, I—”

            “I’m not placing blame,” Kyle said gently. “I only wanted to let you know where we must begin in order to inform both of our kingdoms with the truth. I believe it would be useless to cover up what truly happened, but this is not for me alone to decide.”

            Kenny looked out over the table, at all those gathered, then back at Kyle as she said, “I agree with you, sire. I do not wish to be associated with the acts the dragon committed, nor do I want what was done to negatively affect you, or anyone or any place in Larnion. Let the proclamation read the truth.” She drew a deep breath, then asked all present, “And please inform me, anyone, of the actions taken by the dragon wearing my likeness that will require my attention upon my return home.” Her eyes widened at that moment, and she sat down again, folded her hands upon the table, and stared down at them. “My parents are bound to be furious,” she realized aloud. Lifting her head again, she said, “So, please, I want to fix things. I want to show them that I can at least have control of the reparations to actions that, in many ways, were brought on by a decision that I made.”

            “If I may,” Stan asked after a moment of hesitation. He looked to the Princess, and then to Kyle, who smiled and gave him a nod. None of the councilors fought his request, and so Stan stood, held his hands behind his back, and said to Princess Kenny, “Fortunately, any and all physical damage done by the frost dragon was contained within the palace, which did not suffer any structural harm. It was purely cosmetic, for the most part, and palace workers have done a marvelous job at erasing signs of struggle. Though I will welcome a final decision from the council on this matter, I do not believe we should charge the southern court for recompense regarding damages to the building.

            “The battle took place in the courtyard, though whether or not there were any sightings of the dragon from a distance in the nearby villages is still unknown. As no reports have been brought to my attention yet, I can safely say that those fully aware of the dragon’s presence were those within the palace gates. However, I’ll send out a few from my guard along with the messenger who’ll be delivering the official documentation of news, to assess any sightings or terrors witnessed by our citizens. With permission from His Highness’s council, of course,” Stan added, turning his attention to the councilwoman seated to his left.

            “I think it’s a fine idea,” Kyle offered.

            “As do I,” said Princess Kenny. “Thank you for your report, Sir.”

            The councilwoman next to Stan looked to some of her fellow council members, then gave her own answer: “I think that the council will be in agreement on this suggestion, Captain. Thank you.”

            Stan nodded to her, then exchanged another glance with Kyle, who silently showed his encouragement and thanks, before taking his seat again. Kyle watched as Stan tried not to sigh out his nerves, but he was proud of Stan for being the first to give his thoughts on the matter, not to mention relieved that the council had not shut him down.

            “As for the southern court,” the cleric Token then offered, “I can speak to some of the issues that have come forward in the past year, though I’m sure the paladins will have a more thorough report. I have already discussed these issues with Her Highness, but…”

            “Please,” Kyle said, “tell us anything that you can report. It will be beneficial for everyone present to hear it.”

            “Well, as you know, your highness,” Token said, “my duties are to the southern royal library. I oversee the copying of court documents for discretion’s sake and delegate their binding and filing within the stacks. I also pay visits to most of the villages and towns within a certain proximity to the castle in order to record transactions and collect taxes, and a pattern that I have noticed over the past several months has been a steady requisitioning of land by what appeared to be the Princess’s decree. The dragon was highly intelligent, and clearly operating under the Wizard’s strategy.” He placed his ledger book on the table and continued, “The acts were spread out enough that nothing seemed completely amiss initially, but upon review, I’ve noticed that the requisitions seized land on a plotted path directly toward the Midland territory that borders the very edge of Larnion’s forest region. If I may advise it, Princess, I would suggest that you visit the places affected and undo the requisitions as soon as you are able.”

            Princess Kenny flushed with rage for an instant, then let out her breath. “Thank you, Token,” she said. “I’m glad to know where to begin. I’ll certainly enlist the paladins’ assistance in setting things right for our people.” She looked back at Kyle and asked, “You do this, sire, don’t you? Ride out to your villages quite frequently?”

            “As often as I can, yes,” Kyle answered. “I should like to do so more often, even. It helps me to know how my kingdom’s citizens are faring, and if they are in any sort of need.”

            Princess Kenny nodded. “My kingdom covers much more land,” she said, “but I shall try. I’ll begin with the territories wronged, on the path to the border.”

            “The path to the border…?” Stan repeated under his breath.

            His sister, Shelley, had told him during his visit that her stepfather’s land, now their mother’s, had been diminished within the past year, and the manor certainly did stand on grounds near enough to the border that Stan had traveled there with ease from the Valkyrie’s tavern. She had tried to appeal to the court, Shelley had said, to see what she and her mother could do about reclaiming parts of it, and Stan found that he felt relieved that it seemed she would soon be meeting the Princess, and indeed having her land restored.

            “Stan?” Kyle asked.

            “It’s… nothing, for the moment,” Stan assured him. “Many pieces seem to be falling into place, with each bit of information, is all. I’m grateful for the entire picture of all that’s transpired, as I believe it will assist in our oversight of spreading the right information to all those beyond palace gates and castle yards. Princess, please inform me should you need any of my knights’ assistance, as well.”

            “You’re too kind, Sir,” the Princess said. “I’m glad that our kingdoms can work together, regarding all that must be repaired.”

            “It is a good idea,” said one of Kyle’s councilors, “but Sir Stanley, your offer must be approved by the King and council, as it is assistance in a legislative matter.”

            “He has my support,” Kyle said quickly. “I trust Sir Stanley’s judgment with regard to knights’ affairs, and I know that you must, too. Our guard is known for their kindness and efficiency, and this is thanks in part to his leadership. Do you disagree?”

            “Not at all, your highness,” the councilor said, with a look of shock enough to show that he was telling the truth. “I’m simply reminding all present of the delineation between diplomatic matters and affairs specific to the court and the guard. The law states that the sovereign must approve of all such offers and requests between kingdoms.”

            “I see,” Kyle said. “In this, I do see why such a law would be in place. But on this matter, Sir Stanley has my unconditional support. Should Princess Kenny require numbers of our guard for this peacekeeping matter, I hope that this council can approve Sir Stanley’s recommendations of those among our knights who would be put to this task.”

            “Of course, your highness,” said the councilor. The councilwoman taking notes on the meeting made a quick return of her quill pen to her inkwell and jotted down the decree.

            “Now,” Kyle segued, “with mention of the paladins, Princess Kenny, what do you say of Leopold? Just as we’ll be informing our citizens of the dragon, do you agree that the full scope of the curse set forth by the Wizard should be revealed as well?”

            Kenny took a steadying breath, and nodded. “We need to be forthright about the glamour,” she said. “Let our kingdoms know that this was a calculated attack that took advantage of one of my elite warriors, but I ask that we please keep the language such that Leopold is not wronged, nor seen in my kingdom as a liability. Leopold will return with me and I will allow him a chance at re-initiation as a paladin. That is all that anyone need know.”

            “A wise choice, Princess,” one of her councilors complimented her.

            “This then brings the issue,” Kyle said, “of your paladin’s hammer. Clyde,” he prompted.

            At the very end of the table, Clyde picked his head up. He still appeared to be somewhat uncomfortable in such a setting, but he managed to keep composed in the presence of the councils. He cast a wary glance at the Princess, then rose, and turned his attention to Kyle. “Yes, sire?” he asked.

            “Do you have the paladin Leopold’s hammer on your person?” Kyle asked.

            “I… I do, sire.”

            Kyle stood, and asked, “Could you bring it forward, please?” Turning to Princess Kenny, he asked, “Princess, would you join us as well?”

            The Princess paled a little, nodded, patted her sister’s arm, then stood and walked to the head of the table, standing on Kyle’s right so as not to give the impression that she was claiming the former Queen’s seat. Carefully, Clyde rose as well, and averted his eyes from the odd looks that some of the councilors were giving him. Clyde bowed his head in an unpracticed but respectful nod to both Kyle and Princess Kenny, then took the paladin Leopold’s hammer from his belt and held it out in both bandaged hands.

            Princess Kenny stared at the weapon with a mix of fondness and sadness, and, as though acting on impulse, she reached out a hand to touch the weight of it. She clutched her other hand close to her heart, and whispered out to no one in particular, “The poor thing.”

            “Princess?” Kyle asked.

            “I… I’m sorry,” the Princess said, drawing her hand back. “I simply haven’t seen this beautiful weapon look so lifeless since the morning before Leopold claimed his affinity toward it. It’s gone dormant, hasn’t it?”

            “Sorry, your highness,” Clyde said, attempting formality. “I nullify dark magic. It’s what I do. It’s… it’s what I _had_ to do.”

            Princess Kenny looked the ranger over, looked back at the hammer, then nodded her understanding.

            “Will you take it with you, Princess?” Kyle offered.

            Princess Kenny pressed her lips together, then looked toward the door, where her paladin stood among the members of Stan’s guard. She then smiled faintly, and said, “I wish for it to be returned to its rightful owner.”

            Multiple voices rose up in murmurs around the table at that point, but Kyle took careful note that only the members of both councils were speaking displeasure or shock for the idea. The Creek had not said a word, but both seemed fascinated by the arguments that had arisen between the councils, the Valkyrie did not speak, as it was not in their interest to voice an opinion, and Ike and Princess Karen seemed to be deferring to the choices Kyle and Princess Kenny arrived to. Stan caught Kyle’s gaze and smiled his own approval.

            “Is there disagreement,” Kyle asked the councils, “to the Princess’s decision?”

            The councilmembers debated for a moment among them who was to speak, and then an advisor from the Princess’s court rose. “We certainly do not wish,” she said, “to upset the Princess, or yourself, your highness, but several of us were affected firsthand by the weapon’s glamoured form. We would appreciate a cleric’s assertation of the weapon first, before it is given back to its paladin, to ensure that it is indeed free of possession.”

            Clyde paled at that. “What is it?” Kyle asked him.

            Clyde lowered his voice, and, after hesitating a second, he said, “They don’t trust me.”

            “I do,” Kyle assured him. Keeping his own tone quiet, he added, “The council is known to push back on things unfamiliar. It just may take some time, that’s all.”

            Clyde nodded, but paled again when the cleric Token rose to offer his services for the advisor’s request. To all gathered, Token said, “I have witnessed myself, only recently on the battlefield in the west, the ranger’s ability to render items possessed of dark magic powerless. I’ll conduct a formal assessment of the paladin’s hammer, but I can nearly say with certainty now that it should be fully removed of its glamour.”

            The cleric then looked to Princess Kenny, and approached when she nodded her approval. Still, Kyle saw that the Princess held her breath as Token conducted his study of the Hammer of Storms. Clyde offered it over, and when Token carefully took the hammer into his own hands, Clyde took a reflexive step back.

            But Token only thanked the ranger, and took the opportunity to give the hammer a thorough look over. He then handed it back to Clyde, and declared, “The weapon is neutral. The only power it will ever wield again will be its own, assuming it accepts its paladin once more.”

            Princess Kenny thanked him, and the council gave their approval as Token returned to his seat. The Princess then looked to Clyde and said, “I thank you as well, ranger. I believe your actions saved my Leopold from an uncertain life fully given over to darkness.”

            “Speaking from experience, your highness,” Clyde said, “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

            “Of course,” the Princess said, with a faint smile. “Sire,” she then said to Kyle, “would it be all right if we were to restore my paladin’s hammer to him now? Should anything happen, well… we will do whatever is necessary.”

            Kyle looked once again to the councils; many councilmembers still looked wary, but no one pushed against the request. He nodded, then, to Princess Kenny, who smiled. The Princess then took it upon herself to walk to the door, where she set her hands on Leopold’s arm and exchanged a few unheard words with him. The paladin bowed his head to her and said something in response, then offered her his arm as the two walked back to the meeting table.

            Though he had expressed his wish for the best, Stan still stood instinctively nonetheless. He positioned himself behind the chair he’d been seated in, and kept a hand on the hilt of his sword. This action, Kyle saw, did not go unnoticed by the council, and indeed seemed to cause a few of its members to relax somewhat.

            When the Princess and her paladin had approached, Kenny did not let go of Leopold’s arm as she encouraged him, “Reclaim what is rightfully yours.”

            Leopold took a staggering breath, and looked upon the hammer. “You’ve requested of me, your highness,” he said to the Princess, “that I prove myself merciful again. I fully intend to do so. I don’t know if this weapon will be right for me until then.”

            “There is only one way to know,” Princess Kenny said kindly.

            Leopold paused, the nodded, and asked of Clyde, “May I?”

            “Uh…” Clyde said. Then, looking embarrassed for freezing in the moment, he offered up the hammer. “It should be safe,” he told Leopold.

            Carefully, Leopold took up the hammer by its grip, and all in the room braced themselves for the uncertainty that would follow. Commander Wendy stood, then, too, but her services were not needed. The hammer emitted a small, weak spark, and a slight breeze could be seen picking up outside from the windows, but no storm came. Leopold’s aura remained unchanged.

            The paladin held his weapon reverently in both hands, then thanked Clyde, and fixed it to his own belt again. Princess Kenny was beaming, and she turned Leopold to face her as she said, “You’re going to be all right.”

            She then took his face into her hands, and, in such a way that showed this was a common occurrence between the two, Leopold bent at the knees and waist, allowing Princess Kenny to kiss his forehead. Only after he stood again from this exchange did Leopold show a smile.

            Leopold set one hand on the Princess’s shoulder, and in response to her words, he said, “For you, Princess, I will be. That’s a promise.”

            Princess Kenny pulled Leopold in for an embrace, then walked again with him to the door. The room itself, then, appeared to breathe a sigh of relief, as it appeared not only that peace had truly been restored, but that still better days lay ahead, for both kingdoms.

– – –

            The discussions continued through the day, just as Kyle had requested, with abbreviated meals eaten without ceasing dialogue, and brief recesses taken when they were needed. During one such pause in activity, Kyle knealt at the chair in which Ike was still seated, and asked him, “How are you faring?”

            “Well enough, I suppose,” Ike said. “Are all of your meetings this long?”

            Kyle laughed a little and assured his ward, “No, no. You are welcome to leave if you prefer, Ike. I only wanted you to feel that you are a welcome presence at this table. I was never able to observe my father and mother presiding over meetings to the extent that my father had wished. You are my heir, Ike, and I wish for you to have every opportunity to learn from the court. You do not have to feel pressured to respond to any issues, but I hope we have not been _utterly_ boring you.”

            Ike looked around the room, then back to Kyle and smiled. “It’s all right,” Ike said. “I’m taking it all in. I’m glad to be a part of it.” Just before Kyle could respond, Ike added, “I often wish I could have known them.”

            Kyle’s heart skipped, and though he knew the answer, he still asked, “Who?”

            “Your parents,” Ike said. “Everyone speaks of them so highly, but… I can only ever recall you being King. So… I can only imagine the pressures you have felt, Kyle, always facing the council alone. But it’s clear that you’re well-respected, and you have good allies.”

            Tears came to Kyle’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around his ward in an oddly-angled embrace from the side where he knealt. “Oh, Ike, thank you,” Kyle said. He sat back, patted Ike’s shoulder, and said, “You truly are like family to me, you know. Someday, perhaps soon, I hope, we’ll talk with the council about recognizing you officially as Crown Prince of Larnion.”

            “I would like that,” Ike agreed, smiling again, “when the time comes.”

            Kyle showed a satisfied grin, then patted Ike’s arm again and stood, making rounds to ensure that others were taking advantage of the break in activity to rest or talk freely amongst themselves.

            While there was still time remaining just before the meeting could be called back to order, Kyle found Stan and drew him aside, where the two could speak away from the crowd.

            “Is everything all right?” Stan asked.

            “Oh, yes, yes, fine,” Kyle assured him. He smiled, and leaned against the wall, and simply looked at Stan. From their position, Stan was angled such that he was framed by the window at the far end of the room, which overlooked a significant portion of the palace gardens. The sun was beginning to set, and it seemed as though every color imaginable filled the world outside, painting a beautiful horizon just beyond where the two of them stood. Kyle let out a wistful sigh, and asked, “How are you?”

            “I’m well,” Stan answered, “and you, Kyle? It’s been a long day.”

            “It has, but I’m pleased with how it’s gone.”

            “Yes? You’ve done marvelously, overseeing it all,” Stan complimented him.

            Kyle flushed. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s taken quite some time, but I finally feel as though things are lining up to the place they need to be.” He paused, then shared his revelation from the previous evening. “I’m ready, Stan,” Kyle said. “I’m ready for my rule to truly begin. ‘King’ has always been a title I’ve worn, but now it… it truly does feel like the role I’m proud to play.”

            Stan smiled brightly, and Kyle half wished to end the day there and live in that moment, but he knew that negotiations must continue. He knew precisely how he wanted them to continue. Particularly after Stan said, so warmly, “I’m proud of you, too.”

            “Oh?” Kyle asked, and it came out a whisper.

            “Of course!” Stan said. “I’ve always known you’d be a remarkable King. You’ve made strong allies, you’ve led us to victory. Your council is coming around, and listening as you always hoped they would. Today has been nothing but productive, and that’s a testament to your ability, Kyle.” Smiling again, he repeated, “I’m so proud of you.”

            Kyle felt on the verge of tears as he said, “I’m proud of you, too, Stan. You know, I would never have made it this far without you beside me.”

            “I’m here,” Stan said. “There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

            Kyle showed another fond smile of his own. He thought back to the day before, to their conversation in the clearing surrounding the Creek’s cottage, and he felt his heart beat faster. “Have you enjoyed being a part of the meetings today, Stan?” Kyle wanted to know.

            “Oh, yes, quite well, in fact,” Stan told him.

            “Really?”

            “Indeed I have. It’s been a breath of fresh air, really, to have a constructive discussion with the council, and voice strategy on behalf of Larnion’s crown guard.”

            “They’re not well versed in field strategy, it’s true,” Kyle said with a slight laugh. “You wouldn’t mind having a seat at the table again?”

            “Not at all, if the council will allow it,” Stan admitted. “Why?”

            At that moment, a councilwoman stepped forward from behind and asked, “Captain?”

            “Yes?” Stan asked, and turned to face her.

            The councilor seemed ready to say more, but her face paled when she noticed Kyle as well. “Oh,” she said, flustered, “your highness, I apologize. From my angle, I didn’t quite see you. I won’t interrupt.”

            “No harm done,” Kyle assured her. “Did you have a question?”

            “Oh, well… I only wished to say,” said the councilor, turning back to Stan, “Sir Stanley, thank you for your contributions today. We are fortunate to have a strategist such as yourself among the upper court.”

            Quite without a second thought, Kyle proudly set a hand on Stan’s arm; both were elated to hear such words from the council. “I’m honored to be of service, your grace,” Stan responded to the councilor’s sentiment.

            The councilwoman nodded. “It is also an opinion among quite near half of us, at my current count,” she continued, “that something simply must be done to recognize what you have done for our kingdom, regarding your deeds to expose and eliminate the dragon, and for your service in the recent battle with the west. Regrettably, no higher position of knighthood stands than that which you currently embody, Sir. However, I’m certain we’ll arrive at something. Adulations should be given where due, and as we will be discussing the honors for Larnion’s allies,” the councilor said with a brief look to Kyle for affirmation, “it would be more than shameful for us not to recognize what you have done in some way.”

            Stan smiled for her, and said, “I’m incredibly grateful for your words, and though I appreciate the recognition, I’m simply doing my part for my kingdom.”

            “But, Sir…”

            “I’m sure,” Kyle offered, “we can arrive at something.” To Stan, he said with a tender smile, “You have truly gone far above your station in service to Larnion.” And to the councilor, Kyle asked, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

            “Of course, sire,” said the councilwoman, without hesitation.

            “And would you say,” Kyle asked her, “that your fellow councilors would agree?”

            “Without a doubt, my lord.”

            Kyle gave an understanding nod, unable to hide the fact that he was still beaming with pride for Stan. “I must admit,” he said, “I’m truly appreciative of your support for Sir Stanley’s accomplishments. You know he has been my closest friend for quite some time.”

            The councilwoman looked somewhat flustered, clearly knowing that many of the councilors were at fault for attempting to make Kyle and Stan’s friendship less obvious for the sake of noble appearances. The recent threat to the kingdom truly had seemed to cause many in the court to put aside petty archaic notions of decency in favor of celebrating the much more important matter of a nation at peace. “Yes, sire,” she said. To Stan, she added, “I hope that I might speak on behalf of the full council, Sir, when I say that we are truly lucky to call you Larnion’s champion. I apologize for your exclusion from some court affairs in the past, Sir. Perhaps it is there that we might start in discussing a proper honor for you now.”

            Stan was speechless for a moment, humbled and grateful, but at last he said another sincere, “Thank you,” to the councilwoman.

            “You have my thanks as well,” Kyle added, speaking to the councilor. “Again, I’m certain that we’ll think of something.”

            The councilwoman nodded, and took her leave. When she was gone, Kyle moved slightly closer, and took hold of Stan’s hand. Stan smiled down at their hands, and his fond expression lingered when his eyes met Kyle’s. “Have you something in mind?” Stan asked.

            “Hm?”

            “With regard to what you said to the councilor,” Stan clarified.

            “Oh,” Kyle said. He glanced round the room; others were reconvening after the short break, and as night would fall in a few short hours, they would all be eager to finish the day’s work and make preparations for the next. Kyle felt his heart skip. He had prepared to defend himself in all matters when speaking to his council, and he took a deep breath to remind himself of this. Looking again at Stan, and only at Stan, Kyle said, “Yes, and I certainly hope that my ideas are well received.” With a bit of a smile, he added, “Wish me luck?”

            Stan gently squeezed Kyle’s hand in his, and he leaned in slightly to close the space between them in order to say, or rather to remind, just above a whisper, “You already have it.”

            Kyle felt elated, and it took all his willpower to suppress the urge to kiss Stan then and there. They shared so much—the favour for luck was only one of them, but it was what Kyle needed to continue with the day’s negotiations.

            The two allowed their hands to part, as they had done so often for the past several years in the presence of the council and palace elders, and returned to their respective seats at the table. Before Kyle called the meeting back to order, however, he exchanged a brief glance with Stan, who smiled again, and Kyle knew that things would be well.

            “I would like to thank you all,” Kyle began, “for your contributions, discussion, and understanding today as we have undergone a great many matters. All that is left for today, I believe, before we adjourn, is the matter of proper honors for our allies in the recent battle.” As soon as he had spoken, a councilor cleared his throat, and Kyle winced, knowing he’d forgotten something. “Yes, yes,” he said quickly, before the councilor could interrupt. “And the terms of… of engagement. But first this, if there are no objections.”

            There were none, and the first and easiest honor granted was to the Valkyrie. Commander Wendy was welcomed back to Larnion for any future meetings of strategy that might affect the Midlands, and indeed to any she may wish to lend her voice to. Her sisters in arms were offered, unanimously from the council and from Stan, the ability to join Larnion’s army in battle at the Valkyrie’s discretion, and Larnion’s aid was likewise offered to the Valkyrie should they ever require it. The Valkyrie refused the council’s offer of financial recompense, as they had offered their assistance and not been hired for this particular purpose, and offered their steel in future battles.

            Token was given praise and honors for his instrumental part in revealing the Princess’s treaty with the warlocks, and granted the welcome of practice as a cleric in Larnion, should he wish it at any time. “In addition,” Kyle offered, “should you wish to have access to our court library, please give the word and I am certain our own clerics would be happy to assist you.”

            “That’s an incredibly kind offer, your highness,” Token said, “thank you. Such access could actually do wonders to aid our kingdom’s understanding of the politics of magic.”

            “Then we shall look forward to welcoming you at our library soon,” Kyle said.

            “And allow me,” Kenny said, “to offer you an expansion to our own. Give the word on anything you need—materials, more scribes for your manuscripts—and you shall have it.”

            “I’m honored, your highness,” Token said to her. “Help may well be needed as we begin to work toward your goal of restoring lands after the dragon’s actions.”

            “Of course,” Kenny agreed, and tried not to look too sad.

            Next were the Creek, and one of Kyle’s councilors mentioned, unprompted, “The King has once in the past expressed an interest to knight the two of you rogues. After such actions in battle, would this not be appropriate now?”

            “Sorry, your grace,” Feldspar said, and Thresher nodded, “but we’re not knight material.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “We appreciate everything the knights of your court do,” Thresher said, “but we prefer to keep our actions much more privatized. It simply suits us better.”

            “Gold, then?” another councilor offered.

            “The Valkyrie weren’t for hire, and neither were we,” Feldspar said.

            “Or,” Stan offered, flashing a grin down the table to the Creek, “perhaps we could pay you another way. A trip to the armory, for whatever you might require, or might spark your interest.”

            Thresher brightened first, and tapped his fingers against Feldspar’s arm a few times in a particular pattern. Feldspar smiled after a moment, and nodded. “That’s perfect,” Thresher answered for the both of them. “We both rather exhausted our own weaponry during these battles. New ones—”

            “—And of palace quality—” Feldspar added.

            “—Would be greatly appreciated,” Thresher finished.

            “I put the suggestion to the council, then,” Stan said, looking to the others.

            “Have we the inventory in the armory, Captain?” one councilor asked.

            “More than enough,” Stan assured him.

            “Then the rogues will have what they need.”

            “I think it’s a perfect idea,” Kyle said. “Thank you, Stan.”

            Stan smiled, then flushed somewhat, when it became clear that some of the councilors reacted to Kyle’s use of Stan’s nickname, and not his title.

            “And finally,” Kyle said, “Clyde.” He looked to the ranger, who had his hands folded on the table. Clyde looked first to Stan, then to Kyle, keeping his gaze away from the councilors.

            “Yes, your highness?” Clyde asked.

            “You’ve done my kingdom an incredible service,” Kyle said.

            “You’ve done all of Zaron a great service,” Princess Kenny added. “Without your assistance, I can only imagine the casualties that may have been caused by our enemies to the west.” She smiled, looked to her sister and to her cleric, then looked back at Clyde and said, “I understand that you owe my kingdom several unpaid debts for past obstructions, including piracy, petty theft, and acts against the crown in the interest of your sundry employers.”

            “I do, your highness,” Clyde admitted. “But I’ll be paying them back, and honestly. You have my word.”

            Princess Kenny shook her head. “No need,” she said. “Please consider your debts forgiven by the court.”

            Clyde’s eyes widened. “But—” he started.

            “You said you would pay your debts honestly,” said the Princess. “I would say that your actions in this battle have been beyond honest and honorable, and well above any monetary value.”

            Clyde looked ready to protest, then bowed his head and said, “Thank you, your highness. And I won’t… I won’t take jobs that cross against your court again.”

            “Don’t worry about that,” said the Princess. “Live as you must, ranger, but know that you have been seen as an honest man, and are forgiven.”

            Dumbfounded, Clyde could only nod, and his eyes were on the Princess and the cleric as Token set his ledger book on the table, opened it to two distinct pages, and, borrowing the pen from the councilwoman taking notes, struck two lines through the pages to absolve Clyde’s debts.

            “In addition,” Kyle said, “I hope that you will consider yourself a friend of the court of Larnion. For what you have done, if the offer extended to Feldspar and Thresher, then it certainly must extend to you.”

            Clyde gasped, lifted his head, and turned to look at Kyle in near shock. Kyle looked to Stan for confirmation of his offer, and after Stan gave his silent approval, Kyle said, “Clyde, you have outperformed yourself as a ranger. I will fully understand if that is the life you wish to continue to lead. However, I would be pleased to offer you honorary knighthood for your actions, and a position as a knight errant in service to Larnion, if you so chose.”

            “A… I’m not…” Clyde started to say, “I don’t… what’s a knight errant?”

            Stan smiled, and answered, “One holding the title of a knight, but conducting duties outside of the palace borders. Not a member of the guard, so to speak, but a scout of sorts. The missions of a knight errant are one’s own, while acting in accordance to the laws of our kingdom.”

            “Oh, I… er…” Clyde looked down at his hands, sighed, drummed his fingers on the table a few times, then carefully looked back at Stan, and then again at Kyle. “Your highness,” he said, “that’s… that’s quite an offer. I don’t know if I can give you an answer just yet. I don’t… I just don’t know.”

            Kyle showed a kind smile, and said, “That’s perfectly all right. Take your time. You’re welcome to stay in my kingdom as long as you need before arriving at your answer. That goes as well,” Kyle added, “for the Valkyrie, and to all from the southern court. It’s getting late. All of you are more than welcome to keep your guest quarters here again tonight.”

            One of Kyle’s councilors cleared his throat, and Kyle cast him a look. “Yes?” Kyle asked.

            “Sire,” said the councilor, “Princess Kenny does _of course_ remain our guest, and I would like to move our discussion now to the pressing matter of your engagement.”

            “There’s still more to decide regarding the honors…” Kyle started.

            “Yes, we can hold a public ceremony tomorrow, at the time the messengers are sent out with the declarations of the truth of the dragon attack and the western battle,” the councilor said.

            “I mean with regard to Sir Stanley,” Kyle insisted. He caught Stan’s gaze, smiled, then looked back around the table at the council. “It has come to my attention that many among my council agree that he should also receive honors for his recent services.”

            “This is so,” another councilor said. “However, Sir Stanley is already a member of the upper court. We can continue discussions regarding his honors tomorrow, as it is a much more internal court matter, your highness. Besides, as there is yet no precedent for—”

            “You know,” Kyle said quickly, “so many of our laws and regulations began _because_ there was no precedent. Clinging only to the status quo has gotten us into such messes as of late. Sometimes there needs to be change. Sometimes the change needs to start with us. Do you not agree?”

            The council as a whole fell silent for a moment, and then one councilor spoke up: “This is true, sire. It can be difficult for some of us to relinquish old ways, but it’s true that, for the sake of progress, new things must come to light. However, if we might implore your highness for the time being to allow this particular matter to be discussed _after_ the more pressing matter of your standing betrothal to Princess Kenny…”

            Kyle sighed. He looked again to Stan, and felt his heart beat faster; he then looked to the Princess, who gave an understanding smile. If this was to be the last discourse of the evening, Kyle thought, so be it. Best to bring it all to a final point, and, at the same time, let his wishes be fully, unequivocally heard.

            “All right,” Kyle said to his council. He sat back, squared his shoulders, and folded his hands on his lap. “If it suits the council, I would like to allow our guests to retire for the evening, that this matter might be discussed among our two courts. I should like to ask the cleric Token, and Sir Stanley, to stay, but Commander Wendy, you and your sisters may stay or go as you like. The same offer is open to you, Feldspar, Thresher, and Clyde. Princess Karen, Ike… you may stay or go as you wish as well. Discussions will continue after the morning meal tomorrow as necessary, but I believe we have accomplished most everything we have needed to today. Thank you all.”

            Kyle watched his councilors exchange a few grateful looks, and though the betrothal still weighed on him, Kyle understood the need for the discussion. With any luck, they could put the matter fully to rest, and quickly.

            Both Ike and Princess Karen chose to stay, but the Valkyrie, the Creek, and Clyde took the offer to return to their guest quarters. Kyle saw Clyde give a few wary formal looks and greetings to some of the palace elders as he got up from the table, and he remained close by the Creek, looking pale and asking questions of them while the three left the room. It was doubtful that Clyde would accept the offer of knighthood, but he appeared grateful all the same.

            When the room had settled again, Kyle took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then began by saying, “I do not believe this needs to be a very long conversation. I would like to state again to my council, and to the southern court, that I am personally not in favor of a wedded partnership between myself and Princess Kenny.”

            “Sire,” one of his councilors said, “it was your parents’ wish that you marry before twenty.”

            “I know,” Kyle said. “I know how much the two of them meant to everyone on my council. I know how devastating a blow it was to all of Larnion to lose them both after they had only reigned together for such a short time. I know that you wish to hold close to their written words.

            “However,” he continued, “I would also like to ask my council to consider my own position, and my own relationship to them. I knew them as King and Queen through my lessons, and through passing conversations, but first and foremost, they were my _parents.”_ His eyes stung with tears, but he pressed on. “I wear my father’s crown and my mother’s ring in memory of who they were, as the people who loved me unconditionally and wanted my happiness and success.

            “I have been King for nearly eleven years, and I soon will have absolute rule. I wish to respect what has come before, but also move us forward without consistently looking back, as much as that may sometimes hurt. And I wish to offer my own interpretation of their decree on when they wanted me to marry,” Kyle said. “Surely my love and happiness should be taken into account, not just borders and diplomacy. Nobody need say anything to this, but it’s where I want to begin, and it’s something I have wanted to say since this all began.

            “I respect, admire, and appreciate Princess Kenny as a friend and as a fellow ruler,” Kyle said to finish his opening thoughts. “However, I do not love her, and I believe that a union between our kingdoms is ill-advised, and we are stronger as separate sovereign nations. Allies in war and friends in trade. To be more would be far too much for our people. I’d like to take all of our citizens into account with this, as well. Too large a kingdom could mean too much internal unrest. I would not wish that for my kingdom, nor for hers. What’s more, I… I don’t believe that we could make each other happy, the way that my parents did.”

            There were a few low-voiced responses between councilmembers, among themselves. At least, Kyle thought, they were listening and understanding now.

            Kyle then stood and walked to the wall containing drawers of parchments. He found and retrieved the rolled-up letter from Princess Kenny, written in haste while under threat of the warlocks, and he brought it back to the table, rolled it out, and remained standing as he looked it over.

            “Now, then,” Kyle said, looking to the Princess, “there is the matter of your letter, Princess Kenny. Would you join me, please?”

            Princess Kenny said, “Of course,” stood, and walked round the table to stand on Kyle’s right, again away from the former Queen’s chair. She took one look over the letter, then immediately looked over at her sister; upon doing so, she showed a sad yet grateful smile.

            “Princess,” Kyle said, “if you wouldn’t mind confirming your penmanship. Your paladin did such for us before, but I’m curious: did you truly write this, or was it written for you?”

            “I did,” said the Princess. “I thought that my job would be done if I could persuade you. You have to understand, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for my sister.”

            Kyle nodded solemnly. “I understand,” he said, “but was there anything more to your proposal? Is there anything we truly need to discuss?”

            “Oh… no, my lord, if it’s all the same to you,” said Kenny, pink flushing her cheeks. “I feel that I am years away yet from wanting to marry. And when I do, I hope that it can be for love, as well as what is best for my own kingdom. I hope the same for you,” she added knowingly. “I do wish for us to remain allies, but I do not think that the merging of our kingdoms is necessary for such a thing to be.”

            Internally, Kyle was heaving an enormous sigh of relief, but to the Princess, he simply smiled. “Then we’ll speak no more of it,” he decided.

            “That would be best,” said Kenny. Grinning, she added, “Besides, you truly are terrible with a shortbow. It would never work.”

            Kyle laughed, and the Princess gave into a slight laugh herself. She then placed a hand gently on Kyle’s shoulder, smiled her understanding of the situation, and turned back to the councils. Clasping her hands in front of her, the Princess declared, “I wish to nullify our betrothal.”

            A few murmurs rose up again, this time mostly from the southern court. “Princess,” one of her advisors said, “are you certain?”

            “Never more so,” Princess Kenny said. “It is as the Elven King has stated himself: I do not wish for power over two merged kingdoms. Besides, now is certainly not the time for me to think of anything but trying to undo the dragon’s damage back home. I want time to be with my sister as she reacclimates to the kingdom. I want to do something meaningful before our parents return from overseas.”

            Smiling, she continued, “And besides, I do not love the King. I mean Larnion’s court no disrespect, nor offense,” she added, looking to Kyle’s council. “But we are friends, and allies, and we are stronger as such. I want to be strong for my own kingdom, and be the Princess that they deserve in this time. I wish to marry a man of my choosing when the time is right. And I also wish happiness to the King of Larnion, and it is a happiness that I cannot give him. Please do whatever you must to render this betrothal null and void. My letter was written in a desperate plea to save my kingdom and my family, and it was written quite literally under the knife. I do not wish for it to be considered an official court document, but I also do not wish it destroyed. I want both of our kingdoms to remember why this union did not happen, and why we emerge from battle as stronger allies than ever before.”

            After a few more hushed murmurs, Kyle watched as the council slowly came to their agreement. Then, one of Kyle’s advisors said, “As you both wish, your highnesses. We will not honor the betrothal any further.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said, trying not to show too much of his relief and delight. He then held out his right hand to Princess Kenny, palm facing upward. “Then,” he said, “we part as friends.”

            “Yes,” Kenny agreed, placing her left hand over his right. “As friends, and in peace.” Kyle graciously kissed her hand as a gesture of goodwill. When the Princess retracted her hand, she added, “And with no more talk of marriage.”

            “Well…” Kyle said, “not between us, no.” His heart skipped again. He was given the moment, and could not bring himself to let it go to waste. “But I would rather like to honor my parents’ wishes, and marry soon, before I am twenty.”

            “Oh?” asked Kenny. “Have you found a worthy and noble companion?”

            Kyle smiled, and stood back. Though he still addressed the room, he looked only at Stan. Stan, who sat up to straighten his back, dusk blue eyes wide in surprise and adoration. Stan, who was still the most beautiful person Kyle had ever seen. “I can think,” Kyle said, “of no more noble a station than that of a knight.” Stan gripped the arms of his chair, eyes still fixed on Kyle. “And I can think of no one I would rather marry than you, Stan,” Kyle said to him directly.

            “I—” Stan started to say, still appearing to be in a bit of a state of shock from the directness of Kyle’s statement.

            “Your highness,” an advisor cut in, looking to Kyle warily. “Please consider…”

            “I have,” Kyle said, barely moving in order to shift his gaze to the man who had spoken. “I have considered this choice at length and in great depth in matters of what my chosen companion can offer to this kingdom, and to me.”

            “But, a _knight,_ your highness?” said another of Kyle’s advisors. “This is unheard of. What is there to gain in such a union?”

            “Protection from danger,” Kyle said swiftly. “Strong borders and a prosperous land. Tangible goods needn’t enter into it. Besides—”

            “But, sire,” the first advisor said. “Marriages must be diplomatic. Think of the precedent this could set. You are expected to marry nobility, your highness, that is simply the way things are. We can’t—”

            “If I may,” said Stan, rising. The advisors were struck silent, and all eyes turned to Stan. Nervous but determined, Stan steeled himself and looked around the table, then back at Kyle. He flashed a quick smile, then turned to look back at the last advisor who had spoken. Half an apology for speaking out of turn and half the beginning of his explanation, Stan bowed his head for a moment, then turned and walked over to Kyle and the Princess. “My lady,” he greeted her.

            The Princess smiled, and looked from Stan to Kyle, then returned to her own seat toward the head of the table, beside her sister.

            Stan took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, knowing what he might have to do in order to sway the council. But he had already made up his mind that he would do anything for a chance at love, anything to be with Kyle. “If I may,” he said again.

            “Yes?” Kyle asked, expectantly, the faint, radiant glow of the forest’s magic surrounding him. He took a step closer, so that he and Stan stood at barely an arm’s length apart.

            “I may yet have something to offer,” Stan said to appease the council.

            “Oh?”

            “My mother is a baroness,” Stan said, which elicited a few surprised murmurs from the council. “My sister has already welcomed me back to her; I’m sure it would only be a matter of time before I would be accepted as an heir. I still have a chance to be of the noble class, if…” and here he drew a deep breath before offering, “if I became a baron.”

            “Is that what you wish to do?” Kyle asked, sounding sad.

            “No,” Stan admitted. “But if I did, if I established a life within my family’s estate, I would have something to offer you. I would have assets and land. I—”

            “And what now?” Kyle asked. “What would you offer me now?”

            Stan thought for only a moment before he answered. “All that I can offer you now is what I have, which is who I am,” he said. Slowly, carefully, knowing how such an action might be construed by the councilors present, Stan set one hand and then the other on Kyle’s waist, fingertips barely brushing the fine silk of Kyle’s robe. “I can offer you shelter and comfort, and encouragement and faith. I can offer you warmth, and a bed, and long nights and bright mornings. I can offer you my hand, to help you stand up or to ask you to dance, or to walk with you from here to worlds away. I can offer you love, Kyle, forever and always.”

            Kyle’s eyes watered, and he cupped Stan’s face in his hands. He blinked out his tears, and asked, “Oh, how could one ever think that I would be happier with land? Who cares what looks better on parchment? Love is the most valuable dowry there is, Stan. And that is all I need.”

            The two then shared a long, warm embrace, and there was not a single sound in the council chamber, for which Kyle was immeasurably grateful. The decision was his, and his wishes were, at long last, being honored without contention.

            Kyle stood back, smiled at Stan, then said in a whisper, “And there is yet something that we might do to appease the rest.”

            Still elated and slightly overwhelmed, and quite near tears of joy, Stan asked, “What is it?”

            Kyle brushed a hand along Stan’s arm, steeled himself, and turned slightly to face all gathered at the council table. “It was earlier expressed,” he said for the room to hear, “that the council wished to find a way to properly honor Sir Stanley for his deeds leading to our recent victory, given that no higher rank of knighthood yet stands.”

            The council was still struck silent by Kyle’s much more bold declarations of intent to marry Stan, but after a moment, one advisor said, “That’s so, my lord.”

            “Then,” Kyle said, his head practically spinning as everything fell into place, “might it not be fitting to elevate his status to that of a lord in the eyes of the court?”

            Stan gasped, and Kyle turned back to show him a calming, proud smile. Stan carefully moved his hands again to Kyle’s waist, and held tightly, in love, and in anticipation, and in awe, and utterly surprised but elated by the recent and wondrous turn of events. Stan had refused the title of _baron_ for it being unearned and unfamiliar. To become a nobleman for his deeds as a knight alone… that, to Stan, felt quite all right. And it drew him ever closer to the reality of a life securely and ardently at Kyle’s side.

            There were murmurs among the council, and both Stan and Kyle overheard the Princesses voicing their own support on the matter. At last, one councilor voiced the decision of the group: “Your highness, it is agreed that, given the circumstances of his actions in service to Larnion, your suggestion is a fitting one for Sir Stanley.”

            Kyle, practically beside himself with joy, looked to the council again. “In such a case, then,” he asked, “would you agree that I would be marrying nobility, if I were to marry him?”

            After a much shorter round of words were exchanged around the table, the same councilor answered, “That would be so, your highness.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said graciously. He drew a deep breath, looked around at all gathered before them, and said another, barely voiced and utterly heartfelt, “Thank you.”

            Kyle turned back to Stan, then raised up his own right hand, and gently, carefully took off his mother’s ring. Kyle held it between them solemnly, then lifted it to his lips to kiss the well-cut stone. He then steadied his breath, and took up Stan’s left hand in his right. “For now and always,” Kyle said. “From here to worlds away,” he added, echoing Stan’s words. “I will walk with you, and hold you, and love you, if you will have me.”

            “Of course I will,” Stan promised.

            “My love,” Kyle asked, his eyes locking with Stan’s, “will you marry me? Will you be my husband, and sit by my side? Will you let me carry your heart wherever I may go? I love you, so dearly, and I will give you all that is mine to give.”

            “As will I,” said Stan, smiling brightly. He touched his forehead to Kyle’s, and said, “I will marry you.”

            Kyle smiled as well, then looked down and, measuring his breaths, fitted his heirloom emerald ring onto Stan’s ring finger. He bowed his head, kissed the ring again, and then the back of Stan’s hand, and then he stood up, brushed his left hand against Stan’s cheek, and kissed him directly, still holding Stan’s left hand gently in his right.

            Stan moved his right hand to the small of Kyle’s back, and drew him in closer as the two pressed deeper into the kiss. When they drew back, only slightly, Stan felt as though all the rest of the room had fallen away, and he said, but in a whisper, as his eyes locked with Kyle’s, “I love you.”

            He had not even realized he had started crying until he felt Kyle brush a few of his tears away. Softly, Kyle returned the words, “I love you.” And the two kissed again, with neither regard nor shame for the presence of any of the others in the room.

            They remained together in the warmth and quiet of the moment, then, breathing in the new reality that would allow for the shared happiness they had coveted for so long to last, now, for the rest of their lives. Kyle brushed away the rest of Stan’s tears, and kissed his cheek, before turning to look back at the others. When Stan, too, turned back to the gathered courts, he saw that all were now standing, save the woman taking notes, whose pen was poised to declare the betrothal official in the eyes of the court.

            “You have my deepest gratitude,” Kyle said to his council. “Thank you.”

            “It is as you wish, sire,” one of his councilors said. “Though no precedent exists for a ruler marrying a knight, it is as you have said: changes must begin somewhere.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said again, holding tightly to Stan’s arm.

            “Your highness,” one of Kyle’s advisors spoke up, “this does call for much more than the usual ceremony. There will have to be a full coronation, and—”

            “Yes, very good,” Kyle said. He gave the advisor a sideways glance, and added, “I know how you do love planning things.”

            “I… yes, of course, your highness,” the advisor gave in. “When shall we commence with the events?”

            Kyle consulted with Stan to ask, “A month or two?”

            Stan flushed, and felt his heart flutter. “If it’s possible,” he agreed.

            “Two months, then, if it can be so,” Kyle said to his council.

            The councilmembers shared looks around the table, but none were in positions to say that such a thing could not be done. One of them nodded, and said, “Of course, sire. As you wish.”

            Kyle was beaming, now, and Stan saw the faint glow of his aura emerging from the delight of this turn of events.

            “Now, if we may postpone any remaining matters until tomorrow,” Kyle requested of his council, before turning to look only at Stan with a smile, “I wish to spend the remaining hours of the day with the man I’m going to marry.”

            Again, there were no protests. One councilor said, “A reasonable request, sire. However,” he added, “if we could beg your highness’s attention to keeping with one tradition…”

            “Yes?” Kyle wondered.

            “Let us plan for a midmorning banquet tomorrow,” the councilor said. “That is, if you wish for the engagement to be announced at such time.”

            “Oh!” Kyle looked to Stan. “Is that all right?” he asked.

            Stan was still in a state of disbelief, but was of clear enough mind to agree, “I’ve no objection to it.”

            “Then, let it be so,” Kyle decided, his proud smile returning. He looked to the councilor and said, “A formal announcement at a banquet would be lovely.”

            “In such a case, my lord,” the councilor said, then looked to Stan and corrected, “my _lords,_ I must ask that you both prepare to speak to the occasion.”

            “And if we might make a suggestion to your betrothed, sire,” another councilor said, and she was one that had always been among the dissenters to the majority in the past. “Sir Stanley… might I recommend that you relieve yourself of your duties as Captain of the Guard, at least for tomorrow, and delegate tasks among your knights? This is indeed a yet unprecedented event, but as you are the King’s intended, I’m certain that the court will continue to operate well under your abbreviated surveillance, Sir, until further and more definitive plans can be made for the future.”

            “I’ll see it done,” Stan said. “The guard is well prepared to take on any additional requested duties, and I can well assure you that all will continue to operate as usual tomorrow and in any coming days.” His breath caught as he realized all that this meant, yet again, and he added, “And I thank the council for your approval. I’ve nothing but the King and kingdom’s happiness, safety, and prosperity in my heart. Thank you.”

            The councilwoman who had first voiced an intent to grant Stan additional honors smiled, and said, “Of course, my lord. You have been the King’s steadfast companion these many long years. As you have had his trust, so you have ours. May you both find happiness in your union.”

            Kyle and Stan both thanked the council again, and then Kyle called for the meeting to end. The two received congratulatory looks from both of the southern Princesses, as well as from Ike, and then the night, as Kyle had requested, was theirs.

            When they turned to go, Kyle offered Stan his arm. Stan stared, stunned, for a moment, then graciously accepted and took hold of his lover’s arm, allowing Kyle to escort him from the room and into the main hall. Stan had never been the one accepting an offer of an escort before that day, and his heart was pounding as he walked the familiar palace halls at Kyle’s side, at the threshold of yet another marvelous yet unbelievable change in the course of his life.

            The two ducked into the large, quiet library, where they could be alone. They kissed quickly once, and then again, and then Stan stood back, clutching his own chest as if to calm his racing heart and steady his shaking breath. His eyes were fixed on Kyle, a bit nervous, too, but radiant and overjoyed. Stan felt himself smile, despite his nerves and the memory of the whirlwind that had been the last few minutes of the council meeting. After a breath, Stan felt as though a warmth were surrounding him. It was soft and familiar, somehow, and when Stan held out his hands and stared down at them he realized that the source of the feeling seemed to be emanating from the emerald ring that he now wore. The ring that had been Kyle’s mother’s, and then was Kyle’s, and now was Stan’s. Tears pooled in Stan’s eyes, and he raised his gaze to meet Kyle’s.

            Gathering his breath, Stan asked, warily but with growing elation, “Kyle, what… what just happened…?”

            Kyle smiled, and gave a light, understanding laugh, and stepped forward and took Stan into his arms. Stan held him in return, and could practically feel the threads of their lives weave even more tightly together. “What happened?” Kyle echoed before giving his answer. “The greatest thing in the world.”

            Stan felt the impulse to cry and the impulse to laugh, and he gave into both, clinging tightly to Kyle—his greatest friend; his love; his betrothed. “I promise,” he said as soon as he shook himself from shock enough to speak, “I will do everything that I can, Kyle, everything that I must…”

            “Oh, love, you needn’t prove yourself any further,” Kyle assured him, petting back Stan’s hair. “I have asked, and you have answered, and that is all that matters now.”

            Still in awe and surprise at what had transpired, Stan asked, “Can such things possibly be?”

            “Of course,” Kyle said soothingly. “The council cannot undo what has been decided now. I won’t allow it.” He drew back enough to lock his gaze with Stan’s, and gently brought up his right hand to brush away a few of Stan’s tears. “We can be together, Stan. At long, long last, my love, we can be together. Always.”

            Stan smiled through his tears, and lay his left hand over Kyle’s right, their fingers loosely twining together as Kyle held his hand still against Stan’s cheek. Stan closed his eyes for only a moment, basking in the warmth of Kyle’s presence, then opened his eyes again and felt as though the world had begun to spin, laying out a new path before them. A path upon which they would walk together, greet each new day together.

            All of a sudden, though, Kyle’s eyes widened, and though with his left hand he clung tightly to Stan’s waist, he gasped and said, “Oh…”

            “What is it?” Stan asked in a whisper.           

            “I… I’ve not been too bold, have I?” Kyle asked.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Is this… oh, Stan, is this what you want? I…”

            “How could I want anything more?” Stan said, his tone gentle.

            “But, my love, I know… I know how much it means to you to be a knight. I know how different things are bound to become, and… you chose not to be a baron, so how… how could I expect you to…”

            “Kyle,” Stan said.

            Kyle drew a breath, and let their eyes meet. “Yes?” he asked.

            “All that I could ever want,” Stan said, shifting to take up Kyle’s left hand in his right, and holding their hands between them, “is to live my life in service to this kingdom, and to stand by your side, to protect and cherish your happiness, and to ensure your safety from all harm. I love you, and I have loved you, Kyle, I have loved you in secret, and I have loved you from afar, and I have given my love to you, and I cannot imagine a world in which I would need to hold that in secret again. To be your husband would be the greatest gift the world could ever give me, no matter our stations, yours or mine. And no matter my rank, my darling, I shall ever and always be your knight.”

            Tears gathered in Kyle’s eyes, and he pulled Stan close to him. “I know,” he whispered. He breathed in Stan’s familiar scent, felt himself secure in Stan’s familiar embrace, and he tried to remember the very moment he had fallen in love. Kyle’s grip tightened on its own as memories flooded in, of each and every day, each and every instant in which he had fallen in love with Stan again, and again, and he let himself fill with light, knowing that this was precisely where the two were meant to be.

            “Oh, it’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Kyle said, practically bursting with happiness now. “Isn’t it wonderful? Stan, you…” Kyle could hardly complete his thought. He cupped Stan’s face in his hands, kissed him once, then stood back again to study his features as he said, on the verge of tears of delight, “You are to be my husband. My Consort. King Consort to all of Larnion, Stan, oh, I hope you know that that is truly what you deserve. For all that you have done for this kingdom, my darling, all will now know you as their ruler.”

            Stan smiled, and kissed him. “Ruler or knight of the realm,” he said warmly, “they need only know that I am the man who loves you.”

            Kyle nodded, and let himself weep for joy, and relief, and love. As Stan kissed tears from the corners of Kyle’s eyes, Kyle said, “They’re going to adore you as my Consort, love. I know they will. Larnion is ours to protect and care for together, now.”

            “And we will,” Stan assured him. “Larnion is our home, and I could not be more grateful to serve it in this way. With you, my love, always.”

            “Always,” Kyle echoed. He smiled, and swept a hand gently through Stan’s hair, then touched his fingertips again to Stan’s cheek, and guided him in for a kiss. When they parted, both shed tears, and held one another in comfort, both so newly elated in knowing that no one now could tell them to part. “I love you,” Kyle said again in a grateful whisper. “Oh, my love. My Stan…”

            “My Kyle,” Stan said soothingly in return.

            No more words came, then, but none were needed. Love had triumphed in Kyle’s greatest battle against his council, and at long last, he and Stan could fully enjoy the freedom that came of being a recognized pair. For so long, Kyle had dreaded the uncertainty of his parents’ decree regarding his future marriage, but now all had fallen so wonderfully into place. Kyle let himself cry, and held Stan close. He had accepted his role as King, but now he felt beyond satisfied, knowing that Stan would be with him, in the greatest way possible, through all that was to come.

            After a moment, Stan’s grip tightened a little, and he whispered, unprompted, “I’m here.” And both knew, indeed, that he always would be.

            Just as he had always promised.

* * *

            On the morning before the Winter Solstice celebration when the two were sixteen, Kyle found Stan in the stables and asked him for an escort into the nearest town. Stan obliged without question, saddled two horses, and rode with Kyle down the familiar path and to a shop Stan recognized instantly upon arrival.

            He held up a hand to help Kyle dismount, and though Kyle had become quite the expert rider since Stan had begun giving him lessons the year before, Kyle always graciously accepted the assistance.

            Winter was short in Larnion, but the season peaked during the Solstice. There was to be a full moon that year, and Kyle was to preside over a gathering in the palace gardens that night to honor the season. He was not yet dressed for the ceremony, but his winter robe that day was wool, rather than silk, dyed a deep blue and stitched with golden sigils that seemed to reflect off the snow. Stan himself rarely enjoyed wearing sleeves, but he made concessions during the brief winter to combat the cold, and had made proper adjustments to his own uniform.

            Stan tied up the horses at posts outside the shop, standing them on a layer of hay meant to keep their metal shoes from freezing to the spot, and offered Kyle his right arm to escort him in. “You still prefer this shop?” Stan asked.

            “Oh, yes,” Kyle said as they walked in. “Once I’ve made a habit for something so important, I can’t exactly back away from it. I trust the workers here. I know my mother did, too.”

            Stan smiled, and was glad to find the shop empty of patrons for the time being.

            It was a jeweler’s, and one that had operated since long before the former sovereigns’ time. Stan had accompanied Kyle to the shop for the first time when his parents were still alive, and the Queen had insisted upon going nowhere but this very location for an errand Stan hadn’t quite understood when he was eight. Kyle kept to the tradition, and had, at least once each year, come back to this very shop for the same errand.

            An older elven woman appeared at the shop desk, smiled, and said, “Your highness! For what occasion do we owe the pleasure?”

            “Hello,” Kyle greeted her, rather quietly. He was nearly always quiet in that shop. “Only the usual business, if you don’t mind.”

            “A pleasure indeed,” said the jewelsmith. “Let me see it.”

            Kyle smiled at Stan, patted his arm, then walked alone to the shop desk. Stan stayed close behind, and angled himself to keep an eye on the desk, but to have the ability to survey the front door if need be.

            Kyle held his right hand out to the jewelsmith, who carefully took hold of his hand in both of hers as she examined Kyle’s mother’s emerald ring. The jewelsmith donned a pair of spectacles and surveyed the ring from every angle, respecting Kyle’s unspoken wish not to take the piece of jewelry off.

            Kyle had been fourteen when he realized his mother’s ring finally fit him to wear properly, and he had not taken it off since. Whenever the jewelsmith noticed a need for cleaning or upkeep on the ring, she never suggested that Kyle leave it with her, only gave Kyle instructions on how to properly care for it himself.

            “Not a scratch,” the jewelsmith complimented Kyle that day. “You’ve kept it in wonderful condition, your highness. If it is not out of place to say, I believe that your mother would have been delighted with the care you’ve shown this magnificent piece.”

            “Thank you,” Kyle said, drawing his hand back. “That’s a comfort to hear.” He clutched his hand to his chest, to keep the ring close to his heart, then smiled. He paid the jewelsmith well in gold, and said, “The Solstice celebration will be tonight in the palace courtyard. You and your family are more than welcome to attend.”

            The jewelsmith’s eyes widened. “That’s very kind of you, your highness,” she said. “Thank you.”

            “Of course,” Kyle said. “Thank you for your service to my family.”

            They did not linger after that, but Kyle was quiet until he and Stan were back on the path toward the palace. “Can we take a detour, Stan?” Kyle asked, then.

            “Naturally,” Stan agreed with a smile. “Where to?”

            “Oh, anywhere,” Kyle said. “If the roads allow it, perhaps just a circle round the village walls. I’d just like some time away from the palace before tonight.”

            “Away but not alone?” Stan checked.

            “Why spend it alone when I can be with you?” Kyle asked.

            Stan flushed, and tried to hide it by looking away and pretending to cough against the cold air. When he’d gathered himself, he said, “A ride round the village walls it is.”

            Kyle thanked him fondly, and the two set out at a moderate pace. Despite the holiday activity within the village, the outer roads were quiet but for the footfalls of their horses’ hooves against snow and stone. After they’d ridden for a while, Kyle said, “Thank you for coming with me today. It’s… I’d like to think my mother would still be having this ring examined if she were here, so…”

            “Of course, Kyle,” Stan said.

            “There’s something to be said for some traditions, I suppose,” Kyle added. “And besides, I do want to take good care of it.” He sighed a little, and his breath materialized in the cool air in front of him for an instant before it was gone. “My father gave this ring to my mother when he expressed his wish to marry her,” Kyle said. He was somber, yet smiling. “They were so happy together, I know that much. They shared everything, even balanced aspects of their rule.” He fell quiet for a moment, then continued, “Someday, I’m to give this ring to the person I intend to marry.”

            “Will you be able to part with it?” Stan asked.

            “You know, whenever I doubt that I will be,” Kyle said, “I simply take that to mean that I’m not ready yet. But when the day comes, I’m certain I will be. I just hope… I want the person I marry to care for this ring just as I have, just as my mother once did.”

            “Well,” Stan said supportively, “when the day comes, Kyle, I’m sure that you’ll know. I can say with confidence that you’d never give that ring to just anyone.”

            “No, indeed,” Kyle said with a bit of a laugh.

            Stan smiled again, glad to see Kyle happy after his sentimental errand. He gave Kyle a look over, and his heart soared. He knew that he loved Kyle, but he never knew how to express it, or if he would ever fully have the chance. Still, he let himself admire Kyle that day—his fire red hair complimented by the winter blue of his robe, his smile warm enough to combat the snow and the cold of the season. Stan nearly said something, then and there, about how he would gladly honor the Queen’s memory, and the legacy of Kyle’s family, if he were ever to watch the ring for safekeeping, but he did not dare. Besides, Stan’s love for Kyle was not about the ring, or about status; Stan loved the person that Kyle was, his steadfastness and exuberance for the things he cared about, his ambition and talents, his quieter self that he only let Stan see. He loved Kyle for the time they shared together, for how complete Stan felt when they were with one another; for his beauty, his honesty, his stubbornness, his strength. Stan wondered if anyone would ever love Kyle in quite the way that he did, or fonder, if such things were possible, but he told himself that he would serve Larnion and never let his love falter regardless of the future.

            After they’d ridden back to the palace, Stan remained with Kyle as Kyle made preparations for the evening, and the palace itself was alive with members of the court bustling about for the ceremony. The gardeners in particular were keeping busy with final preparations, and when the time came, Stan escorted Kyle, now dressed again in royal crimson, to the very center of the palace gardens.

            Before he could fully address the crowd, Kyle said, “Thank you for being with me today, Stan. I’m only confident enough to give these speeches when I know I have you close by.”

            “You’re a marvelous speaker, Kyle,” Stan assured him. “And you know that I’m here, no matter the occasion. Always.”

            “Always,” Kyle echoed with a smile. “Thank you.”

            Kyle stepped forward, then, and spoke to the occasion, welcoming the winter season, and thanking those in attendance at the event. He then called for quiet, as the celebration was one of reflection, and one that hardly required words.

            In the middle of the palace gardens there was a small and well-tended bed of flowers that only bloomed when the winter began and ended, and then only under moonlight. When the last light had gone from the sky and the full moon shone overhead, one by one the flowers opened for the first time that season, most a silvery white, many others crimson, and purple, and green, and several shades of blue.

            While everyone’s attention was turned to the night-blooming flowers, Kyle slipped his hand into Stan’s, and held it tightly. The two turned to face one another, and Stan showed a kind smile, to assure Kyle, just as he always did, that somehow, someday, everything would turn out all right.

* * *

            On the third storey of the palace, before its spires twisted up into the sky like the great ancient trees of the forest all around it, there was a little room usually reserved for private spellweaving practice, which opened out, through arching windows and doors, onto a large, long balcony that overlooked the courtyard and the forest beyond. Kyle brought Stan to the balcony, where the two claimed a polished wooden bench to one side, and together they watched as the threads of the forest shone in the sunset, as the moon and stars began to wink into the sky.

            “It’s changed again,” Kyle said. He linked his left arm with Stan’s right, and looked out over the courtyard as the palace shone with copper tones of the evening.

            “What has?” Stan wondered.

            Kyle placed a kiss on the cheek of his betrothed, and then removed his crown, set it aside, and rested his head affectionately on Stan’s shoulder. “Home,” he said. “And so much for the better, this time.”

            Stan smiled, and kissed Kyle’s hair, his heart pounding as he thanked the spirits silently for all that the world had granted them both. He then shifted a little, and removed his cloak to wrap it around Kyle’s shoulders, and Kyle moved still closer as Stan set his right arm around Kyle’s waist.

            Kyle then took up Stan’s left hand in both of his, and brushed a thumb along the emerald in the ring that Stan would wear from that day forward. “I never wanted to give this to anyone but you,” Kyle said, hardly above a whisper. “I’ve felt it in my heart for so long…”

            When Kyle trailed off, and blinked out a few tears, Stan gently tilted his head up so that they could look into each other’s eyes. “Are you all right?” Stan asked, softly.

            Kyle nodded, and gave him a kiss. “It’s happiness, darling, that’s all,” he said. “It’s just so astounding to me that, after so long, I truly can have so much more than I could ever have wished for.”

            “I feel much the same,” Stan confessed. He brushed one hand back through Kyle’s hair, and kissed him tenderly in the moonlight.

            Though the two were alone, they no longer needed to hide. Their love had been recognized and their betrothal honored by the council. After several years of palace advisors and elders not fully understanding their friendship, and trying to push them apart for the sake of societal appearances, their love and their bond had only grown stronger, and they had been rewarded with the freedom now to never hold it in secret again.

            The reality of his impending change in status would become more tangible to Stan in the coming days, but that night, he felt only gratitude for every circumstance that had brought him to that moment on the balcony, embracing and being embraced by the man he loved. The future seemed less uncertain, now; the world a little warmer and brighter.

            They lingered on the balcony for quite some time, talking together of love, and of happiness, and of how the two would, truly and always, face the future and tend to all that they cared about side by side. Just as they had always wanted.

– – –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spoilers if you're reading this note prior to reading the chapter!) Huge apologies again for the unexpected long silence between chapters! I had hoped to have this up much sooner, but March got away from me, and the chapter needed a bit more work than I had initially anticipated. However, I'm so happy to have finally reached this one... the proposal itself I have had written for a little over a year, now, and it is from Stan's declaration that I settled on the title of the fic as a whole.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! There are still two chapters to go before the end; hopefully the next one will be up relatively soon.


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